#fuck you too Kindle

[deadtower]

(drags myself in, covered in blood) first chapter of Deadname... edited

#deadname is my debut novel if u arent up to date on silas lore #ive talked about it here and there before but it's about a college kid who is a ritual sacrifice who comes back from the sacrifice #with telekinesis and has lost all ability to sleep. i used to call it echotrance book but now it has a name #HOOO boy almost lost my mind in the beginning bc i was so convinced it was fucking awful and then i remembered some-- #--of the kindle unlimited books ive read and how absolutely dogshit they are and i was like you know what. this is better than them at leas #and they have like 4 to 5 star ratings from all their really weird friends who think their typo-riddled military-glorifying plotless book-- #--rules so if they can do it. by god i know i can too

[mzannthropy]

Reading The Rose and The Yew Tree by Mary Westmacott aka Agatha Christie. Here's the thing: We have the narrator, Hugh Norreys, who tells the story in retrospective. He was on his way to marry the woman he loved when he got into an accident and was injured, and confined to a wheelchair. His bride-to-be was willing to stand by him, but they broke it off bc he suddenly realised he didn't know the real her, they had nothing in common etc (but the woman is not in any way presented in a negative manner, just that the narrator's feelings changed). Hugh stays with his brother and sister-in-law, who inherited a house on Cornish coast. It's not specified how disabled he actually is, he seems to be able to move his arms alright, but he needs care. Mild spoiler: it's revealed at one point that he planned to take his life--he's been saving sleeping pills. Prior to his injury, he used to be active and athletic. Which he now, understandably, cannot be any longer, plus he is dependent on others. But weeks into living in his sister-in-law's place, after he meets some local people and gets to know the candidate for upcoming election (story takes place in 1945, general election took place that summer in UK), he no longer wants to die. He tells his sister-in-law (who actually knew what he wanted to do all along; she's a smart, capable woman, a really good character) that he's "actually interested in waking up tomorrow morning". A wedding is to take place between two members of aristocracy who live in the castle, Hugh is invited. The groom's name is Rupert.

Sounds familiar?

You know, Me Before You is my most hated book in the universe, but I had no idea that its writer straight up stole things from my favourite author! I mean, that fucking bitch has been accused of plagiarism, so if she did it once, it's possible she has done it more times.

I fucking hate Jojo Moyes.

#agatha christie #mary westmacott #jojo moyes #jojo moyes sucks #me before you #the rose and the yew tree #tried to describe it without giving too much away #there's a lot more going on than that. hugh is mostly an observer #his disability is not the main plot of the story #but just wow. when i got to the line about waking up tomorrow #i just gaped at my kindle #fuck jojo moyes #i'd say may all her pens break and drafts get deleted but then #she'll just steal from someone anyway #fanfic writers do better job than her #mypost

[fingertipsmp3]

I can’t explain it but my hair right now is giving off the same vibes as a bucket hat

#why did i cut it i look stuuuuupid #i don’t like this. i have to go to physio and she’s going to rearrange my whole leg probably because i’ve been too depressed to exercise #i mean my pilates teacher yesterday went easy on us and i still had to order food because i couldn’t move #i got my period this morning and it’s one of those where the ibuprofen is doing fuck all #i mean it’s holding back the pain to a point i can do something other than lie in the recovery position #but i haven’t been able to do any work. i literally looked at the projects and said ‘no’ #i have been watching stardew valley streamers and knitting the simplest blanket pattern on earth #my friend invited me out but then was like ‘oh but i have to go to the farm shop first’ and i was like ‘so you’ll probably be done #at approximately the time i need to be at physio. so. no’ #like she has zero concept of the passage of time. she WILL spend an hour staring at a shelf in the farm shop #she’s a fucking sim #what else happened. oh my heat pad died but i found out i can charge it off my kindle charger #i could do a hot water bottle but the thing i hate about the hot water bottle is standing there in the kitchen like a chump #waiting for the kettle to boil while your uterus sheds itself and you start to see the auras #it’s so much nicer to be able to just turn on a heat pad. but. but then you have to remember to CHARGE the heat pad 🫠 #i’m also pretty sure it takes longer to charge than the actual battery life of the device. it’s been charging for 3 hours and it’s not even #close to done. i will get perhaps 2 #look it’s helpful for when i’m waiting for the painkillers to kick in (if they kick in) but it’s still not the vibe #okay i’ve got to get changed for physio now. two pairs of underwear then shorts then fleece lined sweatpants #i love winter in the north. love wearing so many layers i completely forget what my body looks like #personal

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. WOOOOOOOOOOO. Camprry. Aimed for 5K or less and managed to get wordy again. Reader insert and basically pure smut. This one was supposed to be vanilla with some praise kink (and exhibitionism if you SQUINT since it’s in a tent) but….. hahahahaha….. WEEEELLLLLLL.

CONTENT WARNINGS: oral sex, face fucking, exhibitionism-ish if you squint, choking-ish if you squint, light dom/sub, praise kink, daddy kink, intercourse

WC: 7.5K (whoops)

There is nothing remotely sexy about a camping trip. 

In fact, Y/N thinks that if she were to deduce a list of words upon first thought when it came to camping, sexy would be the furthest one from qualifying. 

There’s nothing sexy about reverting to caveman-ism, sleeping on the ground, sheathed by some paper-thin layer of nylon and polyester and plastic support beams. There’s nothing sexy about pit stains from the lack of air conditioning or its antithetical twin sister, the bumps that rise over chilly skin and trembling bones without the luxury of an electric heater. There’s nothing innately erotic about kindling fire like electricity doesn’t exist, and cooking hot dogs on skewers over the flame, and perpetually swatting at insects that incessantly stick to shins and calves like the flesh there is coated in sugar. 

There is something sexy, though, when it comes to the way Harry’s arms work as he pitches a tent, bi’s and tri’s intermingling in an alluring duet, pumping and settling with each motion. The sleeves of his tee ride up when he raises the limbs, and sunlight catches shadow in ridge and sinew of muscle. There’s something sexy in the way his back ripples, in the way that thin fabric does nothing to cover what she imagines — no, what she’s well aware lies underneath. The same traps and lats she’s scraped her nails over and dug into. The same shoulders she’s sunk her teeth into to bridle cries of bliss. 

There’s something hot about the cinch in his brow when he works, something alluring in the curl at the plush of his mouth when he turns his head and beams lopsidedly at something that their friend has said, too low for Y/N to catch. There’s something sexy in the way that his eyes skim her frame when she’s sitting in a fold-out chair with sunglasses. When his eyes glide over his shoulder. It’s in the most subtle way. There’s something sexy in the way he tears that gaze away. 

There’s something sexy in the way that no one around them knows she spends nights bouncing on his cock. 

This lustrous affair — this sneaky fling. This filthy, dirty secret that only the two of them share, slinking and sidling through the shadows. 

Really, it’s nothing more than a raunchy circumstance of friends-with-benefits, only kept on the down-low to evade prying questions from friends and the sickly confrontation of …feelings. Because it’d be easy to admit they’re fucking, that they’ve been hooking up for months after an impromptu, late night of drinking. But then it’s sort of cementing, right? At least, in a way. 

There’s a status that floats about when you confess you’re sleeping with somebody — when you admit that you’ve entangled them into your routine beyond one mishap of sex. In the eyes of your friends, admitting that you’ve upkept a sex buddy through the roll of the seasons is, like. Well, it’s basically admitting some form of something sentimental. 

They’re just fucking. They’re just friends that fuck. And the way that nobody around them has any sort of suspicion that he’ll most likely be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night for that... 

That’s sexy, the young woman thinks. 

They’re coiled around the campfire once the sun has ducked out and simmered off behind the trees, and Y/N thinks about it. She watches the shape of his features glow beyond the crackle of the flame, and she thinks about the way his nose bumps over her clit when he licks into her. She watches his mouth move when he talks, a muted strawberry that’s dimmed in the night, and she thinks about the cushion of it pressing open-mouthed kisses to her flesh. She’s in his sweatshirt, because she had to borrow one, and it smells like him. She’s coated in it — his scent. Warm, pleasant musk and remnants of tantalizing cologne. It reminds her of the way the same sweatshirt had been discarded and draped over the foot of her bed haphazardly one night, as he kneed his way onto the mattress and clambered over her, fingertips exploring and tongue trailing. It reminds her of the way he smells when he brushes past her in the company of others, just solid weight and warmth. He does it nonchalantly, but the green of his eyes is knowing and flirtatious. That’s when the same scent teases her senses. It reminds her of the way he smells when he’s up close and personal, when he’s rocking against her and groaning softly into the nook between her shoulder and her neck. 

She stares at his hands — the way they lay over the armrests of his fold-out, the way lengthy digits adorned with chunky rings cradle a can of beer. She imagines the same fingers wrapped over her throat, squeezing lightly, in that way that he does. 

Y/N isn’t panting into the chill of the air. The white of her exhales just surface …quicker. His hands, and his smell, and his mouth are entirely irrelevant to the matter. 

By the time they all retire to their respective tents, the young woman is pleased to get a breather from his hands and his …ludicrously plush, smiley mouth. At least in a public circumstance, so she can’t be caught fawning over his mannerisms from a distance. The smell …she can’t escape that. In all honesty, it should be shameful, basking in the scent of a sweatshirt. Instead, she coils up in it under the covers.

She’s turned on her side with gritty rock coursing through wire, chords of guitar and drums rippling out from the little speakers in her ears, entirely engrossed as she scrolls through what little apps can manage access without a durable station of wifi. 

Y/N nearly squeals when an arm slinks over her chest, when a palm nudges over her mouth. And then another hand is plucking at one of the earbuds, giving her leeway into the crinkle of the sleeping bag, crickets, and the sound of bated breaths behind her. 

A low baritone, hushed and teasing against the same ear where the earbud’s been removed, “Easy, baby.” 

The gentle murmur that his lips shape does, frankly, little to soothe the hammer of her heart. In fact, if anything, the muscle soars in pace behind bone with the way cushiony pink grazes her jaw, the way his warm weight presses up behind her. 

“Easy.” 

She’d sit up and turn over her shoulder if she had the opportunity, but the same inky, muscly arm she’d admired hours earlier cradles over, preventing the motion. Harry can tell too, evidently, based on his soft snicker. He’s pleased from the way her head juts to steal a peer back. He’s pleased when she doesn’t succeed.

Instead of letting up, he takes the same earbud he’d pulled out and presses it into his own ear so that they’re sharing the set, crooning, “What are you listening to? Hm?” 

He sponges another kiss to the side of her throat, a stray tendril flopping over his forehead. Y/N knows that he’s listening to it, too, then. She knows from the playful, little nudge of his head with the rhythm, from the way the cord of the earbuds grows taut, from the sound of mirth he muzzles to her skin when he drives his mouth over the side of her neck. The young woman wriggles her arm, just enough for his grip to loosen, and then uses the opportunity to raise her head to take her own earbud out. The motion jostles Harry from the nook he’s seemingly made homage in, and he nips at her earlobe in protest. Anyways, the whole thing sends a chill wracking down her shoulders. 

When he lets up, Y/N twists in his grasp to her back. The earbuds splay over her chest, his own discarded, too. There’s still music seeping softly. She blinks, gaze tracing over his features, basked in shadow and soft amusement. 

“Hey,” she croaks, her voice catching on a crack with the effort to keep quiet. 

And Harry drags a thumb down her stomach, fingers meddling where the fabric of her (no, his) hoodie has rucked up. The ticklish sensation makes her shift a little. His mouth quirks, and he smooths over the same spot again. 

“Hey, you.” 

Her lips part and her tummy jolts when he slips the chilly pad of his thumb back over the line he’d run for a third time. She wants to bring her own hand up and trace the contours of his cocky mouth with her fingertips. It shapes the words, like baritone bathed in honey, “Ticklish?” 

When he brushes over a fourth time, her arm twitches, and her hand shoots for his wrist, squeezing lightly. Corners of muted pink spring up, dimples scoring softly. 

“Yes,” she gripes in a whisper, but the gripe doesn’t come out very gripey at all. Instead, it’s sort of small — that’s on account of his warm weight shifting onto her. Which is a new development, and it’s one that stirs something familiar and warm below the sleeping bag she’s nestled into, half-zipped and mostly just thrown over. 

His sturdy thigh slips in the empty gap between her own, and Harry ducks his head, the dimples deepening and the glint of white teeth escaping through the part of his lips. And then he dips lower until his face is nearly tucked into her hair. 

“I missed you,” his admission is soft-spoken. It’d be sort of tender if it didn’t come out so …hungry. 

Y/N takes in a little, shuddery breath. The same hand that's settled over her hipbone comes up to brush hair away from her throat, and a mouth stipples kisses over her pulse. His voice is a raspy, desirous tease, “Did you miss me?” 

Christ. She thinks that maybe if he were telepathic and had even a brief glimpse into the filthy things that’d cycled behind her skull for the duration of the day, then he’d only be more smug. 

That’s dangerous. 

She’s glad he isn’t. 

The young woman hums — an apathetic sound that feigns contemplation, like his touch doesn’t light every nerve ending in her system on fire, like she hasn’t spent hours staring at his arms, his mouth, his hands. Like she hasn’t been picturing expanses of muscle and skin hidden under his tee, imagining her tongue tracing through the vales of his v-line and her fingertips following the trail of hair below his belly button, slipping lower and lower…

“No?” Harry murmurs, lips bumping wetly over her flesh. What follows is a gentle exhale, and then his mouth is sponging another open-mouthed kiss, and his tongue brushes warmth against her, like he’s petting with it over her pulse. He caresses all the way back to her ear. Something dirty and thrilling slinks down the knobs of her spine when he mumbles, unconvinced, “I think you’re lying to me, little miss.” 

Her breath stutters. 

“I think,” Harry muses, fingers dipping beneath the shroud of the sleeping bag and smoothing back over her waist testingly, “that if I had a look right now, you’d be a drippy mess.”

Her throat bobs on a swallow. Petulantly, and so obviously feigning, Y/N tips her chin back and tells him, “…Not at all.”

Instead of smoothing tips of digits back over the naked, little expanse of skin again, they venture lower, teasing at the waistband of her sleep shorts. “I think your sweet, little pussy would tell me otherwise, wouldn’t it, pet?” 

Another deep breath rolls her chest under the cushioned sheet of fabric when fingertips dwell in. Just centimeters, practically. They retreat. Harry presses another kiss just below her ear. 

“Hm? It’s been so empty all day long. Achy, I bet.” Chills rise awake all over when he murmurs, purely condescending pity painting every syllable, “Poor baby.” 

He’s always had it — this gift of filthy, dirty gab. This ability to render her craving and wanting with his words like it’s innate, practically. She shouldn’t be surprised when he shifts over her, just enough for her to feel how hard he is, tips of his curls tickling at her cheek, “Could stuff it full. Make it all better.” 

Y/N sighs. Finally. Like it’s a release of the whole act, and the seams of it come apart to bliss when he nips with his teeth. She cranes her neck to give him more room to work. 

“Would you like that?” 

And she would, she thinks. Very, very much, and his lingering fingers — when they pull out and he hooks a thumb in and just tugs down a smidge — remind her of how hot she suddenly is. How hot everything is, despite the chill in the air. Instead of answering, the young woman nudges with her chin — a nod. An unsatisfactory one, evidently. 

“Words,” Harry mutters. It’s gentle, and quiet, and she hopes the polar opposite of the way he’s going to fuck her.

She cranes her neck more and splays her thighs what little she can under his weight. It’s kind of a plea. It’s also sort of pathetic. “Yes.” 

But it makes his mouth crook. His palm draws away. No. That wasn’t the intended effect. She curbs her sound of protest, but he can tell that it’s bridled in the chamber — she knows because the curl of mirth grows wider. He sits up a bit, bracing on his arms until he hovers over her, and then he sighs, jade sliding to the sector of the bag that’s zipped. Slowly, like he’s teasing, he grips over the notch and tugs. 

“What d’you do if you want me to stop?” Harry beckons, nearly a whisper but not quite, fingers skimming up under his hoodie. The same hoodie clings to her flesh, and every nerve sparks alive at the touch, striking her lungs to expand heavier. The air catches when the pads of his fingers graze up the vale of her sides and siphon a flinch. 

“Teacup,” Y/N breathes the safeword in response, and the fingertips climb her ribs like a staircase, pleased. 

“Good girl,” He tells her, and the pads sink back over, bumping over the ridges, and he tugs the fabric up over her chest. 

Her bra is red. It’s a nice detail, all lacy cupped over her chest. He draws the tip of an index over the edge and says, “Cheeky,” like his comment isn’t, “…Did you wear this to get fucked?” 

The young woman gnaws at her lip. Innately, it’s not an accurate statement. She didn’t wear it to get fucked — not when she knew he’d be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night and fucking into her regardless of the state of her underthings. But it’s a nice touch when he ducks, palm squeezing over one of her tits, and tacks on all low against her ear, like it’s praise, “Because you know I love you in red, pet.” 

The satisfaction of pleasing him buds in her chest, right at the core of her ribcage, warmth pitted deep, and it slinks out like beams of gooey sunshine, winding and seeping through the cavity until her veins practically thrum yellow. She’s buzzing beneath him, pulse thumping and fibers of muscle twitching. It makes his mouth curve — the way he feels her trembling under him like she’s a taut string, and he traces a thumb over her mouth. 

Then jade flits to her chest, and Harry takes the thumb away to hook fingers under the cups and tug. They settle under her tits, perking them, and the way the wire settles over her ribcage isn’t particularly comfortable, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when he shimmies down her body and draws a stripe down with his tongue, all the way from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the bra, settling in between. He kisses down her stomach, green salacious and twinkling up through shadow at her, and his tongue draws a circle around her belly button. His mouth quirks there, too, because it makes her flinch. Because he knew it would. Harry brushes with wet taste buds lower, settles on a side, low on her tummy, and sucks a pressing kiss. Her whole spine wrings and writhes, arching when he pairs the sensation with a dull graze of his hand over a nipple. It’s barely anything, but it’s a touch she longs for. And she doesn’t know why, but it always lights her on fire when the pleasure entwines with something that makes her want to squirm out of her own skin.  

Because when he turns the graze into a pinch and a roll, when he hones on the drag of his tongue and the suckling of his mouth, when he skirts featherlight fingertips up her side like he’s plucking invisible strings, the yellow thrums red, and hot, and hungry. When his mouth lets up and he drags wet lips to curl over the opposite nipple and the featherlight turns more purposeful, squeezing at sensitive flesh, this knocked-out unph escapes her, like a bridled grunt he’s punched from her. Like a half-laugh, like a moan, like a mottled gasp, like discomfort and please-don’t-stop enmeshed, curbed out of desperation. It makes the red fucking neon. 

Harry withdraws with a pop from the bud, and the air bites onto the wet to replace his mouth. The ambiance of rickets and cold reminds her that they’re kind of, sort of, definitely in public, only really shielded from said public (and the intrusive presence of their friend group) by thin sheets of nylon erected with plastic poles. Her eyes say it all then — this hesitation sparking, lashes bouncing and bounding from the nervous shift of her pupils, working from his eyes to his plush mouth and back as he rises to settle over her more. 

“They’re asleep,” he promises, a hushed murmur he seals to her own mouth in a sloppy half-kiss. His top lip ghosts over her cupid's bow, and he smooths a hand back over the vale of her waist where he’d squeezed a second ago. Her chest rolls under him, and her mouth parts, just a little to let a mottled little sound escape, like a wheezing gasp she’s muffled. 

And he muffles it more with his own lips, pressing against her. The sleeping bag rustles, and it’s quiet beyond the stilted sheets barring the wilderness. Harry’s hand skims down. 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Harry murmurs into her mouth, palm trailing until it stills at the waistband of her shorts, fingertip lingering over an expanse of skin below her belly button that he’s well aware will have her squirming. Y/N jerks. “Here? Or… maybe…”

The young woman practically does a squished, weighted version of a body roll beneath him when he moves his hand to her inner thigh, dragging the pad of his index over the sensitive skin higher up. “Maybe …here? …No, I don’t think so���” 

His tongue licks into her mouth when she opens wider for him, desperate for the taste of him on her tongue, and she nearly gasps over that same tongue — loudly — when his palm cups unceremoniously between her legs. “…I think you want me here. That’s about right, isn’t it?” 

Y/N makes a little noise — it’s something between desperation and wordless agreement, and it quirks the corners of Harry’s mouth, carving dimples in beside his smug beam. The hand withdraws so suddenly she wants to melt into the hungry soil. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweet thing,” he declares, voice hushed, a bass-deep admission soft-spoken and colored with teasing.

Instead, he presses up until he’s hovering over her and then knees his way back, and then his fingers tuck up under the waistband of her shorts. When he discards them into the beginnings of a pile of clothing beside them, coaxing her hips to rise up enough with a soft word, blood teems into her cheekbones, like it’s all new and foreign. 

It’s not. 

It’s the most comforting and familiar when he traces a fingertip over the cleft at the crotch of her panties, the most familiar when he shimmies his fingertips under the sides of the fabric at her hips and tugs those off, too. It’s familiar when he holds a leg up, fingers gentle at her calf, and sponges kisses up her leg from her ankle to her inner thigh. It’s familiar when his tongue dances over hot, slick, flesh in craving, when it rolls around her clit and circles back. When he’s amused by the proof that he was right, that she is soaked, and his ego inflates like a hot air balloon. It’s familiar in the draw of his tongue, in the brush of his lips, in the way his fingers brush over her thighs, over her hole, over the sensitive areas in between. It’s familiar in the way that she watches stars speckle in the darkness behind her clenched eyelids, in the way that Harry doesn’t let up even as she pants and wrings her own fingers into his curls. In the way that he only responds with a moan against her at the rough treatment of his scalp.  

It’s somewhere between heaven and hell, teetering on the wire, when he laps over her pulsing cunt. His irises flicker up when she shudders, when Y/N makes a futile attempt to clasp her thighs over his head and prevent the light drag of his tongue over her oversensitive button. Instead, he tucks a palm against one of her legs and holds it down, plush lips curling around an ‘o’ and sucking. Every muscle seizes, her fingers twitching and struggling to curl into the thinly stuffed fabric of the sleeping bag. She bridles a whole-body thrash, neck straining as her breath stutters. 

“Please— plea— it’s too much—“ Y/N swallows midway her begging to avoid choking on her own spit, and that’s cute, Harry thinks. 

Aw, Y/N thinks he’d coo up at her from between her thighs, if his mouth wasn’t occupied at her core, those are pretty words. They don’t sound like a safeword, though. 

He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say anything, humming quietly over her clit (honestly, she can’t tell if it’s in protest or agreement) and rolling a slow circle over nerves that are spent and nearly raw post his caress. 

Her chest is still rolling when he clambers his way up onto her, kneeing around her sides and then coaxing her arms up into a stretch. Harry cages those with firm thighs at the roots of the limbs, kneeing his way higher until he’s hovering over her chest and admiring her, all pliant and worn out and obedient beneath him. He sniffs, head cocked and eyes glimmering, and then sighs when he tucks fingers into the waistband of his shorts. Her fingers twitch, outstretched above her. And he’s weightless, and steady, and careful over her, but despite that, filth from his tongue punches her breath out like he’s sat directly over her lungs.

“Gonna suck my cock, baby.” 

It’s not really a question — not in tone. It’s a coo, a declaration, insight before Harry digs his fingers further past elastic and discards two layers of fabric with one tug, and his cock bobs free, glistening with a bead of precum at the head. 

Y/N swipes out over her lips with her tongue, and the sheen of spit over pink nearly matches the glimmer on the pink of his tip. The man cradles his free hand over his base and tucks the waistband lower on his hips, just until it rests under his balls and a glimpse of inked laurels and milky expanses of a bare tan line are on show. Bracing himself with a hand planted on the ground, Harry leans over her and aims his shaft, daubing over the plush of her mouth. When her tongue peeks out to swipe over the silky skin, she thinks he’s going to chastise her for her lack of patience. He doesn’t. Instead, he ogles down at the motion like she’s a goddess, cracks in otherwise apathy morphing; a light crease between his brows, a twitch in his lips. The same lips part for a shuddery breath like he’s trying to reign in his composure. And with every drag of his head over her slippery, hungry taste buds, a slow, side-to-side swipe that seems to lose precision with each motion, those cracks in his control give more. His jaw sets and he takes a long breath in through flared nostrils, and then shifts the palm that’d settled on the ground to rest over her wrists. 

“M’gonna fuck your mouth,” Harry tells her, pupils scoping carefully from her lips to her own eyes in finality. “What do you do if you want me to stop?” 

Y/N blinks. Her fingers twitch. She bends the digits over his grip and squeezes, flexing and unflexing over his own fingers like code in a tempo of frenzy. His gaze doesn’t even flicker from the aim of his tip, and he draws it over her mouth like he’s in awe of the sight.

“Good girl.” 

The young woman takes in a breath, mouth parting over his head slightly, all doe-eyed. He smushes his cockhead to the open seam.

“Open up for me,” the soft croon is accompanied by the tilt of his head, and a stray curl dangles over his forehead when he swipes the tip over her lips, “Nice and wide. Show me that pretty tongue.” 

And it slinks from her mouth as if on mindless command. Harry smears his tip over it like a filthy greeting, and then he feeds his fat cock in, guiding it up until the point to where he’s able to shift his weight onto the hand that doesn’t coat her wrists, careful not to cause the confined joints any discomfort.

“That’s it,” his praise seeps out all breathy, barely over an awed whisper as he sinks in and her tongue flexes to encompass the drag towards her gag reflex, “That’s a good girl.” 

The pointed little end grazes over his balls. 

“Eyes up here, pretty thing,” Harry encourages, ducking his own chin. There’s something pretty in the dance of her lash line, in the way her pupils flit up to his shadowy face, the way her lips tuck over her teeth to cushion his shaft. The way her tongue stays stuck out, flexing under the welcomed intrusion, “…Wanna watch them get all teary.” 

It’s like she tries to appease him. It’s as if on instinct to his words, that her lashes flutter as she tries to peer up, the beginnings of a ready sheen glazing the pretty color there as her tongue twitches and her throat bobs in an attempted swallow.  

And Christ, does it feel good when she does that. 

Harry’s own neck cranes, the muscles there flexing and veins swelling there like little ropes pulled taut under his skin. He groans, and it makes her do it again. His brows are furrowed when he risks a glance down at the picture-perfect view, and his hips nudge forward a smidge, only for him to bask in the sight of her irises lolling back and her lashes batting. A hiss lips through gritted teeth like rain through a gutter, and his head cocks further as he smooths an index to rest over her palm. She doesn’t have her digits balled — not all the way — not until his forefinger rests in her reach. She squeezes over that, almost like it’s an anchor. Something grounding to tether her. 

“Shit,” he manages out, barely over a whisper to bite back a throaty groan, hips rolling and brows furrowed in pleasure, “Shit — you’re good. You’re so good—“

And it makes the twitch of her lashes melt into a flitting bat, the color there rolling back and hiding behind the flutter. She can’t exactly hum in acknowledgment, but Y/N makes this garbled sound around him — this desperate kind she’d only make with his shaft stuffed down her throat, and it’s loud. Too loud. He squeezes over her wrists with his thumb, hips slowing until he’s wedged in to the hilt, stilled with the tip of her nose pressed to the light dusting of his pubic hair.

And Y/N thinks she’s going to implode. She’s going to implode if she doesn’t suffocate over his cock first. 

“Shh, shh,” Harry wriggles the index she’s gripping until her touch loosens enough, and he’s able to stroke the tip over her palm, “Shh.” 

Her pupils flit up to him in this deliciously delirious way for air. Harry tips his head down, the shadow of another curl flopping over his forehead. His cock twitches. Y/N makes another sound over him, this one lower. More pleading. More distressed. Her lashes flutter, cheeks puffing. Just when she’s about to clench and unclench over his fingers, he pulls out. It’s nearly all the way, but not quite, and she wheezes oxygen into her deprived lungs, muffling a fit of coughing. When she turns her head to take in more air, his tip slips out and draws a wet streak of saliva from the corner of her mouth across her cheek. 

“So pretty,” Harry murmurs. His tone sounds distant, and absentminded, and awed, like her mouth is divine and his voice is sort of full of worship, “You take me so well.”

Y/N blinks up at him, lips swollen post his ministrations and parted, slick with spit. Harry adjusts his grip, balancing his weight, and curls his lengthy digits over the base of his cock, aiming it back to that pretty, pretty mouth. 

Her jaw practically unhinges at the implication, tongue sticking out to daub at his cockhead when he croons, “And you’ll take a little more for me, sweetheart. Won’t you?” 

The sultry plush of his mouth curls up, all smug like when the tip of her tongue prods at his head, and then he feeds himself back into the warmth of her mouth. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips rolling slow and cautious as he guides himself in, “Yeah, you will.” 

He settles back into a pace of shallow, jutting thrusts, slow, and calculated, and testing. But then those melt and meld into something smoother, something deeper that brushes the back of her throat. Her fingers stretch wide and open and curl helplessly, never quite squeezing over his own digits, and Harry basks in the wet, pornographic sounds that envelop his shaft. Even as she tries to dim their volume, the sound of her sputtering around his cock isn’t something she can exactly mask when he brushes her gag reflex, again, and again. With every prod forward, every second she spends with her jaw wide open for him, that flame in her core kindles higher and higher. When he pulls out, jaw clenched and tummy flexing, ridges of his abs caught in the shadows, it’s like he pours kerosene. 

“Suck,” her friend tells her, soft-spoken as he nudges with his hips. His palm cradles his cock, fingers curled under the base. But her range of motion is limited, and Harry tips it up from her wanton, slick lips. Almost like it’s purposeful, because it definitely is.

A tentative tongue slips out to draw over his balls, and the way his front teeth lodge against the plush of his bottom lip, head cocked to indulge in the innocuous peer of her eyes beneath him — that’s a pretty sight she can make out even through the lack of light. She takes a million mental snapshots with her pupils, all of him in his all, curls dangling from the angle and the sharp line of his nose, his panting mouth as her tastebuds drag, sinew of muscle at his abdomen flexing, a rise and fall. The barest shape of the dark anchor etched into his wrist, his long, ring-clad fingers, the way they curl over his cock. The shape of it hovering over her face. 

A low groan squeezes past the door he’s made with his teeth, and then he says, “Yeah. There. Go on.” 

Her tongue morphs to her mouth, lips latching over lightly and sucking, just as he’d directed, and parting teases paste to him like doting kisses. Her lashline bounces as her eyes attempt to make his responses out through the rough angle and the dark that coats them. His head craned back there, his tummy rising and falling in pants there, his face tipped down over her to watch. The most insightful — and frankly, the most satisfying — are the sounds. 

The hisses of air he sucks in through his teeth, the way huffs fall out from between his open lips. They’re slow, and they come out like he’s trying to control them for the sake of the decibel, but they shake as they escape, and that’s a telltale. And then there’s the moans. 

There aren’t many of those to indulge in, but there’s a couple, one that Harry can’t seem to curb, despite his seemingly best efforts, when Y/N rolls her tongue over him all slow-like and comes off with a pop. And then another, later, that has him hanging his head when she stipples kisses to the sensitive skin there. 

“Christ, you’re gonna kill me.” 

The young woman hums, maybe in agreement or maybe goading, lashes batting innocently beneath him as she draws her lips over his sac aimlessly. 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and then he stifles and clams up like he’s contemplating. When her tongue drags over him again he seems to make a decision, tearing himself away and kneeing his way back until he’s hovering over her thighs, his cock bobbing and wet with spit, “Sit up. Take this off.” 

Do this, do that. A shudder climbs up the knobs of her spine, slithering its way up the bone as she basks in the dominating note plucking at his tone. The sweatshirt catches on her hair and tugs strands, but it’s frenzied, somehow fond, the way his hands rove up her sides and slip up her back, roaming over hot skin to toggle at the back of her bra.

Then it’s, “Roll over,” with the last of her clothing discarded into the darkness, somewhere beside them in the same, sloppy pile with her shorts and her underwear. “Gonna—“ she thinks he sheds his t-shirt then, imagines his muscles rippling and flexing as he pulls it off, over his head from the back, “—fuck you like I want your snug cunt wrapped around me forever.” 

And then go his shorts, judging by the way his weight dips and balances, the shuffling from behind as he kicks them off and they’re flung somewhere by his ankle. He presses up onto her, grappling her by the hip, all warm weight and everything brushing together. 

“You wanna bounce on my cock, baby?” Harry murmurs, pink lips grazing her temple. A curl tickles at her cheekbones when he ducks to skim his teeth over her earlobe, to ghost a breath of promise — of foreshadowing against her neck when he tells her, sultry low and smooth like honey, “Be a good girl and ask Daddy nicely. Maybe then I’ll let you.”  

Shit. Fucking Shit. That little word teems down her ears and hikes all the way down her nervous system and back up, lighting everything in her alive.  

Quietly, barely over a whisper, Y/N beckons, “Please.” And when Harry doesn’t immediately move, she licks out at her slips, swallows, and pleads, “Daddy. I need you. Need you inside.” 

In response, her friend cups a hand over a love handle and guides his cock to press against her. But he doesn’t breach. 

“Better, but not quite,” he sighs. There’s leaves rustling outside in the gentle breeze, but Y/N doesn’t hear anything besides the rush of blood in her ears when she begs more, and it doesn’t get any quieter when Harry rewards her by tucking himself inside and pumping forward, just about halfway. 

It’s a crying shame when he doesn’t make any motion to keep going. And then it’s quiet besides their panting breaths intermingling. Eventually, though, he does talk.

“Fuck yourself on it,” Harry instructs, cadence ludicrously controlled given that half of his cock is tucked into her. Y/N peers over her shoulder to catch glimpses of his furrowed brows — the rip in the stitch of semblance. She can only manage to see so much. He ducks his head and nips at the shell of her ear, coaxing tingles down her neck, her shoulders, all the way from her nape. “Go on. Don’t pretend to be shy about it.” 

Fucking fuck. How can she not be, she thinks, when he talks like that? 

There’s a heat that seeps over her the crest of her cheekbones where he can’t see, and she squeezes over him in response to the filth. Harry settles back up. From the corner of her eye, Y/N notes lines of muscle shaping his arms as he hovers over her. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she arches her hips up a tad and nudges back. It’s not enough — it’s maybe an inch, and she rocks forward by pressing her hips down and then repeats the motion. Just as there was a lack of control over her shame when he spewed dirty, brazen, filth, there’s also a lack of motion when she’s rolled forward with her tummy pressed to the ground. There’s only so much — so many inches she can ride back on when she’s rendered immobile. 

He knows it, too — it’s obvious by the poorly muffled note of mirth in his tone from behind, “Good girl. But you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

Helplessly, Y/N grits her teeth, fingers tangling into the fabric of her sleeping bag as she rolls her hips back in another attempt. It’s stuttery, and awkward, and not really a seamless, Shakira-esque roll at all. It’s a poor shuffle, hips raising more than traveling back. 

“Come on,” Harry goads, tutting like her tries are half-assed and she’s not currently exerting her body into creating motions that are simply unrealistic, “Take it proper. You want it? Then take it. Show me.” 

Camping is supposed to be wholesome. Camping is supposed to be laughter, and deep, pure breaths of air that scrub out the tainted glaze of city life from the walls of your lungs, sticky like cigarette smoke residue on the walls of a house. It’s hiking boots stuffed with the thickest socks. It’s marshmallows on twigs over curdling flames that lick up, it’s flashlights, and spooky myths and legends verbalized, and more laughter. 

Instead, Y/N is camping, and she’s currently barely grinding over inches of Harry’s cock. 

“I can’t,” she grits out, frustrated, but it sounds more like a whine than anything with bite.

“You can’t? Sure you can, pet,” Harry grapples over her hip, bracing on one arm in, honestly, an impressive showcase of athleticism, and manually rakes her hips back over him. It allows for more — more of him, more of his cock, more of his touch. More of him splitting her open and spreading her apart over him. “Just like this, right?” 

She’s sure he must be meeting her at least a quarter, if not halfway, though. It all feels like a devious ploy. Y/N whines. He makes this amused sound then, one of those puffs expelled through his nostrils like a half-laugh, accompanied by a hum. And then he pulls out and pumps his hips forward, until he’s flush to her backside, and then reverses and repeats. Three times. He gives her three, good, long, full thrusts, smoothing out to the tip and in to the root until she’s stuffed, just like he’d promised. Then, he presses in all the way and just basks in her heat. 

“Better?” Harry asks, but his tone catches on a quiet grunt and wavers in its prior composure. She squeezes over him, really squeezes, and he muffles a groan with the seal of his mouth. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all, and then the filth spills again. It’s odd how patronizing he can sound, despite the way her cunt so obviously affects him, “Need Daddy to do all the work, is that it?” 

Y/N hums. There isn’t much she can say to disagree because it’s good. At some point, his slow rolls morph into sharp juts, and the brace of his arms bends and gives until his chest is flush to her back. 

“Please, please, please, please,” Y/N croaks out the mantra, muzzled by the smush of her cheek to the ground with the pressure of his hand palming at the side of her skull. 

“Shh,” Harry rocks forward, fingertips twitching into her roots like a meld of petting and admonishment. He rocks into her until he’s flush against her backside, splitting her over him to the hilt, “Shh …don’t need to beg, sweetheart. You can have it. Have it all.”

He’s warm weight over her, hard muscle like hot, sticky stone as he works into her from behind. He’s a welcome stretch, a pleasant burn, inches of bliss that her spongy walls cling to in a warm hug. He’s tips of curls brushing over her cheeks, filthy words in a murmur flush to the shell of her ear, little, repressed grunts and shuddery exhales as his hips rock. He’s a headlock that squeezes over her throat deliciously and keeps her neck craned back. It’s in this perfect way that almost has her gasping for breath. 

The young woman practically bites into her tongue to curb a nearly animalistic groan that climbs from the depths of her chest and squeezes out past her detained windpipe. She doesn’t need to try as hard when his opposite arm shimmies up over the poorly-cushioned sleeping bag, when his hand clamps against her mouth, palm smushing over her lips. Instead, her high whimper catches on his skin and muffles out. Her nostrils flare over his digits when Harry shushes and chastises through grunts. 

“I know, baby. I know. Need you to be — shit — a good, quiet girl for me, though.”

Her irises nearly loll back into her skull, fluttery for the ceiling of fabric in their sockets at the dominating tone of his cadence. 

“Gonna be good for me? Make me—“ his words taper off when he muzzles a groan with the seal of his own lips, and what comes out is hushed, and masculine, and obviously bridled. But it doesn’t make her as hungry as when he beckons, “—Make me pleased with you?”

Because she wants to please him, wants to be good, wants his digits to press harder over her tongue when he slinks them into her mouth. It’s not her fault when the motion siphons a whimper. So Harry does — press harder that is, an inclination for her lips to wrap over his fingers, his chin tucked over her shoulder. His mouth presses to her temple, gracing her with puffs of air through his nose as he rocks into her.

“There we go,” Harry coos, soft and barely over a whisper when her mouth seals over the intrusive digits, “There’s a good girl. Let’s keep those pretty sounds to ourselves.” 

He rocks into her until she’s whining into his hand, until they’re really slick with sweat, and he’s grazing at his own peak, working until it unravels him from the inside out. She’s still making hushed sounds against his palm when he groans all low into her hair and his motions melt into something stuttery, when he empties ribbon after ribbon as she clenches over him and milks him through it.

He’s probably going to rifle through the dark for some discarded fragment of fabric to clean the mess. It’ll be haphazard on account of the night, and she’ll still feel the sticky remnants, dried up at the peaks of her inner thighs in the morning. But it won’t really be gross. Sort of a sordid, morning-after keepsake, sort of a dirty thrill as they pack their stuff among the others in their cohort. Sort of, probably, an excuse to fuck later in the day when they have a moment alone to themselves, reminiscing on the night before. 

But before that, he’ll probably clean his mess and run a hand down the vale of her side in a praising caress, like he normally does. Probably lay next to her for a bit before sneaking off to his own tent because, even though they’re just friends that fuck, he’s never been weird about cuddling — aftercare is sort of a must. He’ll probably say goodnight with another searing kiss, the kind that burns deep inside, because every time he leaves is kerosene actively poured into the pit of a bonfire. Because every time he leaves, she wants him more.

Tomorrow they’ll still be friends. 

Just friends that fuck.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #dom!harry x sub!reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #fwb!harry #fwb au #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles one shots #dom!harry

[katsukiizmoon]

Katsuki loves his kindle.

The first time he comes across a smut scene, maybe he’s propped up on the couch. The kindle rests on the soft muscle of his chest and this thumb idly clicks to the next page. And oh they’re making out now. The tension built to an all time high, one of the characters finally snapping and slotting their lips over the other’s. His feet rub together at the bottom of the couch, just peeking out of the soft pink throw blanket.

The tips of his ears rival the color of his eyes. Katsuki’s skin dusting a peachy tone while his teeth worry his bottom him. It’s hot— the room is now hot— and a thin coat of sweat covers his body. He flips through the pages with heat in his tummy and a dry mouth. And every page just gets so much… more.

You amble across the living room for something out of the fridge and quirk a brow. The blonde’s body language making your eyes narrow.

You take it upon yourself to slide behind the couches arm rest and get a look at what he’s reading. You’re skimming the page with a knowing grin when you press your lips to the column of his throat.

“Hot, right?” Your arms slide over the expanse of his shoulders and down to his chest.

“Shut the fuck up.” Katsuki growls, rolling Ruby eyes and sending you a glare.

“You should do that to me someday hm?” You purr.

The room gets hotter, the heat in his belly pools and thickens into an all-too-familiar type of tension. Fuck. Katsuki gets why all those Middle aged ladies read romance with funky looking covers now.

#gives him all kind’s sex ideas #[ mini ] #[ katsuki ] #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugo x reader #[ kindle!katsuki ]

[bloodbruise]

@jegulus-microfic | april 7: regret | 2,011 words | NSFW

sometimes your best friend's brother is so hot you just have to jerk off about it.

Fucked. 

That’s what James was—completely and irrevocably fucked.

He couldn't claim ignorance; he'd seen it coming from a mile away. The change had been gradual, an ever-present whisper he failed to quiet. The subtle shift from looking at Regulus and seeing Sirius’ younger brother to looking at him and seeing Regulus. His continued presence at his and Sirius’ place had casual conversation turning into inside jokes, quips and jabs traded back and forth–James loved it when Regulus was a little mean to him. It turned into movie nights and visits at Regulus' job. 

All of it was fuel to a slowly kindling fire.

So, really, he had no one else but himself to blame when he got burned. Scorched, actually. 

It was a casual favor–helping Regulus move because Sirius had gotten held up at work. It was supposed to be nothing, just helping out a friend, something he would do for anyone in his life. Something he did without a second thought because that was James’ Thing. But, he really should have thought it through. Because watching Regulus, who was usually so impeccably composed, now disheveled and glistening with sweat, was an exercise in restraint. James’ mind was in a tailspin, fixated on lithe muscles moving beneath skin, flush from exertion high on his cheeks, messy hair pushed back and curls barely controlled by a headband.

James had been so normal about it all, truly, given the circumstances. Silently commending himself on his raw unadulterated strength for not jumping Regulus right then and there– he was playing it so cool. But everything teetered on the edge of collapse when Regulus, busy trying to put his couch back together, asked James to fetch the other screwdriver from the box beside his bed. 

To James’ credit, there were a lot of boxes there, so he naturally went with the one closest to the headboard. And later, when Sirius chewed him out for wanting to fuck his younger brother, he would blame it on that fucking screwdriver. Because when he lifted the lid, the contents inside hit him like a physical blow. The room spun. He was going to fucking faint. 

Inside the box was... Christ. It was overwhelming. Toys, lots of them, lined up all pretty and careless and innocent. Like they weren't going to kill him right on the spot. His eyes caught on the purple one, how thick it was. His mind oscillated between stupor, awe, and undeniable arousal, only snapped back to reality by Regulus' voice, muffled from down the hall.

“James? Did you find it?” 

In a panic, he slammed the lid shut and scrambled for another box. “Uh-huh, yeah,” he called back, nodding to himself, still dazed. “Found it, found it.”

With the screwdriver finally in hand, James re-entered the living room, his cheeks flushed and a strained smile on his lips. He passed it over to Regulus and awkwardly clasped his hands in front of him, attempting to conceal the evident bulge in his pants. He had intended to stay, they had planned for dinner afterwards–Regulus’ treat for his help. But now, his thoughts were a vortex, endlessly spiraling around Regulus and those toys and–.  

Voice too high and a little thready, he hastily blurted, “Okay, we got all the boxes, right? Yeah, okay, all set,” thumb jerking towards the door, “I forgot- I actually have to go, yeah.” Nodding to himself. He was aware that he probably looked insane, but staying was not an option. Not when every thought was a hazard. So he just stumbled through a weak excuse, pointedly ignoring the puzzled look on Regulus’ face, and rushed home. His grip flexing hard on the steering wheel and music blasting the entire time, because he was sure if he let his mind wander he would veer off the side of the road and crash his car.

It was only in the safety of his own room that he allowed himself to unravel. He twists the doorknob, pulling on it to ensure that it’s locked. His mind going straight back to that box, to Regulus, and his imagination runs. 

Fully clothed, pants a mess–precum everywhere– he shoves them down. Just far enough so he can get a hand around himself, not even bothering to move to the bed. He knows the intimate details of what the inside of Regulus’ bedroom looks like. So there’s a crystal clear image that he can’t shake. Regulus, legs spread wide and fucking himself—his head thrown back, hips twitching up and opening so sweetly around a toy. There was something so erotic about the thought of Regulus coming home, maybe even from James’ place, and taking care of himself. Stuffing himself full until he was crying out and shaking with it.

Was it drawn out–slow? Did he take his time and open himself up with his fingers first? Or was he usually too worked up and eager to wait, just sinking down and reveling in the burn? Did he ever use a vibrator at the same time? It was delicious, the idea of Regulus being pleasure-drunk by his own hand. James knew if it was him, he would be insatiable, would force one more and another one please, baby out of Regulus until he was sobbing. James needed to see it, thought he might die without it. 

A whimper rips from his throat at the mere thought of it– picturing himself at the foot of Regulus’ bed, content to just watch, to be so good for him. His movements become more frantic, hand working over himself faster. He pulls up his shirt and bites down on the fabric, head falling back against the door. In his mind, he wonders if Regulus would chide him for being bad, when James would finally break and scramble over to him. If he would let out a noise of protest when he pushes Regulus’ hand away and takes over, gripping the base and fucking him. He imagines how he would react when James crowds into his space, licking into his mouth and swallowing down his moans.

James is close when he thinks about Regulus’ eyes half shut and rolling back, body arching against him. How he would feel under his palm if he dragged it down the plane of his chest, if he raked his fingers through the hair under his belly button. Fuck. The thought of what it would feel like to touch between his legs, feel him wet and warm and dripping on his fingers. He’s almost there, movements getting more urgent. He starts circling his thumb over his sensitive tip with every upstroke. Has to grab at his own throat to ground himself, squeezing for just a little pressure because his body is feeling so good that it's floating up, up, up.

When James finally breaks, its with a weak, breathless, “ah- fuck R- Reg.” He makes a mess of himself. Back arching off the door, coming in ropes across his chest and dripping sloppily over his hand. He stays there for a while, slumped against the door, twitching with aftershocks. It’s only after his breath returns to its regular pattern that he moves, grimacing slightly as he sheds the rest of his clothes in a crumpled heap.

Nevermind the guilt of jerking off to his best friend’s brother, his own friend–his mind was reeling. James had convinced himself that it would help, to get it out of his system and be done with it. Deep down, though, he knew that wasn't possible. He knew that indulging himself would only pull him deeper into his spiral of obsession with Regulus. It was a little fucked up, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

Exhausted, he collapsed onto the bed, a groan escaping him. The images and thoughts of Regulus were still there, but they were shifting. Had he ever used them on anyone else? What would it be like if he used them on James?

Against the mattress, James let out a heady moan. His forehead was slick with sweat, hair clinging to his skin. He found himself rocking hips involuntarily, pushing his spent cock into the bed. God, would Regulus top him? Fuck him with his strap and tell him he takes him so well. Oh, would he make him suck on it too? The overstimulation from the lack of respite was deliciously painful. He bit down on the sheets, grinding against them as he reached out clumsily and fumbled for the lube in the bedside table.

This second time was just as desperate. Lube in hand, James coated his fingers. So messy–glistening on his hand the same way he imagined it would look after pulling it from Regulus’ cunt. He drew his knees up under himself, breath picking up again and chest heaving against the mattress. His glasses askew and head turned to the side, he was looking back as best as he could at where his fingers were circling his hole.

He eased one finger in. He didn't feel nearly full enough but there's a slight burn– a reminder that he hasn’t done this in so long. He wishes Regulus were here to stroke his cheek, his neck. For him to press down on where James’ hand is inside of himself and tell him, “You can take more baby, I know you can. Need it, hm?”

James is gasping with the thought, mouth open and drooling a bit. He can’t bring himself to care though. He briefly pulls his finger out, swiping hastily at his stomach where his cum hasn't dried and mixing it with the lube before he’s pushing back in, another alongside it. 

“Christ” he swears to himself. It’s a little clumsy, an awkward angle. His own fingers are a little too thick to move them fluently. He thinks it wouldn’t be like that with Regulus. In his mind, Regulus would work his fingers inside him with the same poise and deadly precision that he does everything else. He’d probably talk him through it too, breath hot against his ear as he teased James for being so needy, for wanting to be filled. It would have James on the edge in minutes, and that thought alone is so hot that James can't even feel shameful about it.

He shifts, pushing up on one arm and arches his back, so he can drive his fingers deeper. He slips in another finger. He’s so– so worked up, body so warm. Sweat beads on his neck, trailing down and pooling where his back curves. Both of his arms ache with the strain, but he’s too far gone to notice. Too caught up in the slide of his fingers, lost to the thought that even three of them were still not as thick as the purple toy in Regulus’ room. He’s pretty sure he’s making noise, he can't really tell though. Everything’s gone a bit fuzzy from the pleasure. 

He knows he’s loud when he comes though. He finds the spot that has him going weak, almost buckling the arm that's holding him up. It’s overwhelming, he focuses on a few hard presses of his fingers right there and he's coming. A broken sob wracking his body as he gives into it,  writhing against the feeling, ruining himself even more. He draws it out as long as he can, fingers moving relentlessly until his nerves sing with raw sensitivity. He slips them out before collapsing into the mattress, just breathing.

He can't help but laugh at himself-–thinks it's a little pathetic. That one accidental peek into a box has left him lying here, covered in his own sweat and spend. And yet, his mind is still running over the possibilities. A constant loop of Regulus and toys and straps. A low whine escapes him at the idea of going another round, his cock already twitching at the mere thought.

And through the haze of it all, the pleasure and the embarrassment and the Regulus, he can only make sense of one thing: 

He is so utterly fucked.

#a part 2 is coming methinks #microbial genetics exam on tuesday... i havent reviewed any lectures but i did write this! #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #jegulus fic #jegulus microfic #marauders #starchaser #marauders fanfic

[hecateslore]

omggg pls I need u to developp the “-my boobs hurt -I’ll massage them later” thing with simon 🙏🏼

yeah I saw you in the comments 😏 MDNI pregnancy sex if you're chill w/ it and if you're not... get out

You step out of the shower, grabbing the beach towel and wrapping it around your body. You open the bathroom door and hiss at the cold air hitting your damp skin.

Simon looks up from his kindle, "You ready?" He asks, Setting it aside. You nod, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. You waddle over to the bed, getting on it slowly.

When you finally get settled, Simon scooches close to your side. He pulls your towel open, stretch marks litter your stomach and breasts. You were always so sore all over and So so swollen.

Simon's brown eyes on your swollen chest, "They're huge," you complain. Which was very true, the swelled with milk after the first 3 months. He rubs your stomach softly, "You want me to get some oil or lotion?" You shake your head no, "I don't want to be greasy," Simon nods, moving higher and higher.

His hand finally lands on your right boob, he squeezed it softly, You wince at the tenderness, "Sorry," he mumbles, eyes still on your boobs. "They weren't this big with Nova?" He looks at you, "They were smaller than these but bigger than before I had her." You tell him and He hums.

His warm hands continue messaging you, and you can feel the wetness growing between your legs, the sensitivity in your nipples 10 times worse now. Simons hands went lower and lower and he started rubbing your thighs, giving them light squeezes. You let out soft moans and quiet sighs from the pressure of his grasp.

"You okay?" He looks at you, "Mhm," You hum quietly, "Just feels good." You say. "You look beautiful," He kisses between your tits, you chuckle at him, "Thanks," You say, chuckling at the feeling of his lips.

"You do," He says, dragging his lips over the skin of your left breast, eventually catching his lips over your delicate nipple, a small gasp left your mouth, making him chuckle deeply, he suckled at it, letting it go to stare at the wetness his mouth left. He does the same to the other, making sure to run his tongue over the hardened bud.

"Open your legs," He says, kissing you chest all over. Without any thought your legs are spread open. Simons big hand reaches down to feel your cunt, dripping with arousal. You moan at the feeling of his hand rubbing your pussy, "We haven't done this in some time," he teases, "You're gonna ruin it," You say, a loud sigh comes out after his thick middle finger is shoved in your sensitive hole.

He works quickly, fucking it in and out. "Oh my god," You breathe, "Shh," he shushes you, "The baby." You nod quickly, "Sorry, sorry." You mutter, the pleasure too overwhelming.

He pulls his finger out and lays back down on the bed, ridding his bottoms. "C'mere babe," He says reaching for you, you take his hands as he pulls you up, "Get on top," his cheeks red from the rush of dopamine. You swing your leg over his pelvis, "There we go," He smirks, watching you reach down to grab his shaft. You line it up with your cunt's entrance, and let the tip of his big cock stretch you out like it's done so many times before (This is why you're pregnant sister 😐).

"Oh my god," You mumble as it fills you slowly. Simon lets out a low grunt at the feeling of your pussy around his length. "Jesus christ," he hisses. He bucks his hips lightly, urging himself to fit in you.

You finally slide all the way down and take your hands off his shoulders to squeeze your own tits, Simon's eyes darken at the sight of you groping yourself. You moan at the feeling of his thick cock in your swollen pussy. Simon adjusts himself under you, getting better leverage. He grips your waist, thrusting up into you making your swollen boobs bounce. The pain from your tits smacking your chest as they rise and fall mixing with Simons quick and deep thrusts.

Simon lets out deprived moans, basically panting while plowing your swollen hole. You let out mewls trying to match his thrusts, your big belly making it harder than normal. You place your hands behind you on his thighs. Simons eyes roll to the back of his head at the view of your big tender breasts and puffy nipples, the way your swollen cunt got so wet from an innocent massage.

You could feel you orgasm building, the painful pleasure at your front, making you want to ride him harder. "Oh fuck, slow down," Simon warned, filthy moans escape your lips, Simon chokes on his words all his pleasure rushing the tip of his cock, "Oh my god," he says hoarsely, holding your hips down, "fuck, fuck, fuck," he gasps while you grind on him, "rub my clit," you demand, widening your legs as much as your body allows, he does, placing his thumb on the little numb.

You keep grinding, while he rubs circles on you bud, your pussy, wet a sensitive. His hands stutter the closer and closer he gets. You start bouncing a little, Simon lets out a big sigh from the change of pace, "I'm gonna cum," you say, reaching down to rub your clit again, that familiar feeling coming back again, You rub your clit faster, feeling your pussy quiver. Simon groans, filling your cunt with all of his hot cum. You keep bouncing, greedy for the rest of his orgasm, loving the feeling of being overly sensitive. "Stop, stop," Simon grabs your hips, holding you down. Your body twitches from the aftershocks, your pussy soaked with his and your cum.

You calm down after a while, the exhaustion creeping back into your body, You're still in the same spot, "You want to take a shower?" Simon asks, "I'm too tired," you yawn. He chuckles, "Come here," he grabs and lifts you, placing you on your side, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Let's stay like this." you mumble, shutting your eyes.

"I hope bug isn't awake," Simon says, rubbing your bare arm, "She's like me, She can sleep through anything." Simon chuckles at you and your sleepy talk, "Goodnight," he whispers, kissing your cheek.

You hum and drift off into a deep sleep.

#lunden’s response ❀— #Papa!Simon #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #cod ghost

[riki-riks-chick]

Would you write smut about trying to keep quiet with niki whilst the other members are in the dorm?

Keep Quiet ┃N.RK

loud!riki x anxious!reader

dry humping riki and he's being extremely loud.

═════════════

Third Person POV~

"Riki... Be quiet.." You let out a strained moan, your hand rested on his lower abdomen as he rutted up against you, his lips parted as he released moan after needy moan. You had asked him to be quiet multiple times, but he was too invested in the way you were sitting on top of him, his clothed bulge pressed hotly against your clothed core.

He always got so needy whenever you hung out at the dorms, but clearly you couldn't do anything about it out of a fear of getting caught. This clearly wasn't just Riki's room, so you were constantly on guard in case one of his roommates came in.

 "Baby.. Please.. I need more." He was whining so incredibly loud and you were filled with an anxiety that only slightly overpowered the growing need in the pit of your stomach. "Shut up.. You're gonna get us caught."

"I can't..." He groaned in that deep tone that always made you lose it, and you couldn't bear it any more. "Riki.. Please." You beg, covering his mouth to muffle him. 

He seems to moan louder as you cover his mouth, kindling your own moans as you bite the fabric of the hoodie you're wearing, trying to muffle your own pleasured sounds whilst holding yourself up.

Usually this would be your last resort to helping Riki get off, but it's definitely not bad. Not at all.. The way you can feel him pressing eagerly against you despite the barrier of clothing. It's all so hot.

Riki grabs your wrist, his hips stuttering swiftly against yours. You could tell he was close. You moved your hand, placing both hands on Riki's chest as you move your hips faster, grinding harder against him as you could feel your own stomach turn pleasurably.

 "Fuck.. I'm gonna cum.." He moans, his hands coming up to find grasp on your hips as he bucks his hips particularly hard against yours, letting out the loudest groan.

"Holy shit..." You moan, your hips stuttering as you come undone on top of him, leaning down to capture his lips in hopes of quieting your shared gasps and moans.

He had eventually come down from his high, rubbing your hips as he pulled away to look up at you. "We have to do this again sometime." He whispers as you chuckle.

"Not if you can't keep quiet..."

═════════════

I don't write Riki smut. I've said this so many times. The most I'll do is this (call it smut if you want) I'll write suggestive fics like this, but never just simple smut.

#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen hard thoughts #enha smut #niki hard thoughts #niki hard hours #riki hard thoughts #enhypen nishimura riki #enha niki #nishimura riki #niki enhypen

[humanpurposes]

So thrilled you’re taking requests! I love winter themed fics this time of year. I’m requesting modern Aemond (if not allowed then Michael Gavey) + stuck in this cabin until the storm passes/come sit by the fireplace. As much smut as you’d like with maybe a teeny bit of angst?

Thank you for taking requests, I know they will all be lovely

A/n: Took the liberty of making this a Michael Gavey request 😈 Also this gif is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!! Shoutout @barbieaemond and all the other amazing gif makers on here. These guys are such an integral part of fandom and they deserve all our love, appreciation and credit ❤️✨

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: 18+, slight angst, handjob, thigh riding (ish), Michael Gavey being awkard, but not quite a virgin

Main Masterlist

“Fucking skiing holiday. Should have fucking known this would be a fucking disaster.” 

Michael’s foul mouth hardly phases you anymore. When you first met him you thought he’d be a shy type of guy, with his baby blue shirts, cargos and wire frame glasses he kept pushing up with his middle finger.

You’d quickly found that he wasn’t at all like you expected. He can be abrasive, often judgemental and vulgar, not so unlike your other friends but with Michael it seems to come from a place of unashamed honesty. You sort of admire him for it.

He’s pacing the small living room and kitchen of the cabin, furiously fiddling with his mobile. You’re kneeling by the wood burning stove, hovering a lighter by the kindling in the hopes that you can light a proper fire.

You’re surprised he agreed to go on this trip at all. 

You have a few friends who do Maths, and at the start of second year they started inviting Michael to the pub on the weekends. You recognised him from your trips to the library, where he’d usually sit alone after his friend ditched him for Felix Catton.

They’d been all talking about a skiing trip between Christmas and New Year, to this little Italian village in the Alps. You didn’t— and still don’t— actually know how to ski, but spending a few nights in a cabin in the mountains, surrounded by snow sounded like a dream. Michael had been sceptical at first but you’d managed to convince him to come when you said you’d need someone to keep you company when the others were on the slopes.

The others had all gone out as soon as you arrived, leaving Michael to get settled in the cabin.

But it’s turned out to be somewhat of a nightmare. It’s too dark to actually see the snow storm but you can hear it, shrieking and howling against the walls and windows of the cabin. You have no service, no central heating, just the small assortment of snacks you had brought with you, a packet of paprika crisps, a bar of chocolate and a prosciutto sandwich you’d bought back at the main resort, back down the mountain, back in civilisation.

“Fuck, fuck fuck!”

“What now?” You ask, still focused on the fire.

“Mobile’s fucking dead. Shit! I have a charger in my bag but the bloody electricity isn’t fucking working so I can’t fucking charge it!”

You smile to yourself as the kindling catches alight and the flames start to lick at the larger logs.

You glance over your shoulder as Michael tosses his phone on the sofa, runs his hands through his hair and catches his lower lip with his teeth.

“I have plenty of charge on mine,” you say, “I’ll turn it off to save the battery and we can see if the service is working in the morning?”

Michael stares at you for a lingering moment. He can be so intense sometimes, almost unsettlingly so. “You want us to stay here all night?” he says softly.

“People know we’re here. I’m sure someone from the resort will come up when they can. Until then, we just have to wait out the storm.”

He tuts, but he knows you don’t have any other options.

You sit together with your backs against the sofa so that you can be as close to the fire as possible. The heat pleasantly burns your face and skin through your jeans and jumper. Even then, where your arm presses against Michael’s, you feel the warmth of his body beside you. 

You grab the crisps and the sandwich out of your bag, offering them both to Michael. He only takes a handfuls of crisps and when you split the sandwich in two he takes the smaller half. You offer him more of the chocolate bar but he insists he’s not hungry. You frown at that. It might not be a Crunchie, but Michael never turns down chocolate. 

“How was your Christmas?” You ask, popping a square of chocolate on your tongue.

“Fine,” he says, looking down at his hands, “had dinner with my dad and my nan, went to see my mum on Boxing Day.”

Guilt twinges in your chest. “Are your parents not together?”

“Oh no, they split up a long time ago,” he says, like it should have been obvious.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns to face you, staring intensely. “Why would you be sorry?” 

“Because I didn’t realise.”

He smiles. You think it’s because he knows you’re nervous. “I’ve been splitting Christmases between my parents every year since I was twelve, I’m well used to it now.”

The topic doesn’t seem to phase him. He takes another crisp from the packet and looks into the fire as he crunches it between his teeth.

The low light reminds you of the nights you’ve sat opposite him in the King’s Arms in Oxford, all the times you’ve been tipsy off wine spritzers and found yourself trying not to make it obvious that you’re staring at him. He’s handsome, especially up close when you can see the details of his face, his lips, his surprisingly pretty eyelashes, the little cleft on the tip of his nose.

When his eyes turn towards you, you think your heart might leap out of your chest.

You take a quick breath, eyes darting around the room, at the fire, the pile of logs beside the stove, the sprinkling of ashes on the floor, but it seems inevitable that you’ll find your way back to him.

“Why did they split up?”

Michael raises his eyebrows but keeps his face solemn. “She left him for someone else.”

“Oh,” is all you can think of to say. 

“It happens,” he says. “People always want to find something better. My dad was never the most exciting guy to be around.”

“But what about you?”

He huffs a laugh to himself. “I’m not exactly enticing company either.”

You can’t tell if you just want the conversation to end or if you should say something else.

“It’s not something I can fix,” Michael says. One of his hands rests on his thigh and he slowly flexes it so the tendons shift beneath his skin. “And it’s not something that needs to be fixed. People come in and out of your life, but you move on. That’s just the way it is.”

He’s almost hunched over himself, with his chin tilted down and his glasses sliding down towards the end of his nose. 

You’d seen him in the pub once, back in first year, with that friend of his, Oliver Quick. Oliver had gone up to the bar and ended up sitting with Felix Catton and his band of admirers. You’d watched Michael leave the pub and remember your heart shattering for him, for this boy you didn’t even know.

Now, stuck in this cabin, snow swirling past the windows, the sound of the fire crackling a few feet in front of you, and Michael’s side pressed against yours, your heart shatters all over again.

You place your hand over his, and he instantly stops moving. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re great.”

Michael tries not to smile. “You don’t need to flatter me,” he says.

You curl your fingers over his hand and tighten your grip. His eyes meet yours and you feel yourself frowning, because he doesn’t understand, because he doesn’t see himself the same way you see him. 

“I mean it. You’re funny, even when you don’t even mean to be, and honest, and straightforward…”

You glance down at his lips, slightly parted as he listens to you. It crosses your mind to lean in closer, but something stops you.

“I really love that we’re friends,” you say.

Michael looks down at your hands. His lips are pressed together.

He doesn’t want this, you think. He doesn’t want me.

So you pull away, with a little smile to keep it friendly.

He blinks a few times as he looks back at your face. “Thanks,” he says, softly. 

He stands, and you don’t think you can bear to look at him as he moves towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

You turn your attention to the fire, add another log for good measure and poke at the glowing embers in its heart.

You hear movement behind you, footsteps and fabric.

When you look back you see Michael has his arms full with pillows and blankets. He layers some of the blankets on the rug, and soon he has two makeshift beds, one on the sofa and one on the floor.

“What’s this?” You ask.

“We’ll freeze in the bedrooms without the heating, we might as well make use of the fire.”

It’s a good call, and now that you have somewhere to sleep you start to realise how tired you are. 

You rummage through your suitcase and pull out a pair of pyjamas you got for Christmas. Michael changes in one of the bedrooms and comes back in one of his maths pun t-shirts and a pair of red and black bottoms. 

You go to lie in the bed on the floor but Michael puts his hand on your shoulder and insists you sleep on the sofa.

Even with the heat of the fire on your face and the blanket pulled up to your chin, you can’t stop shaking. Your limbs are frozen and your skin is tight, but it feels deeper set than that. You feel the cold in your chest like a fever.

It feels like hours have passed and you still can’t sleep.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Michael’s voice grumbles below you. You peer down over the edge of the sofa. He’s turned away from you, towards the fire. You hadn’t even realised he was still awake.

“It’s fucking cold,” you say, wincing at the quiver in your voice.

Michael shifts to his other side so he’s facing you. You’ve never really seen him without his glasses, and he looks completely different, somehow softer, not as harsh.

“We’ll be warmer if we, if we share,” he says quietly.

His suggestion weighs heavy in the space between you, unless it’s just in your head. You can already imagine yourself pressed against him, feeling the warmth from his body and letting it sink into yours.

You don’t trust yourself not to try something stupid either.

You take the blanket with you. The floorboards are piercing against your bare soles so you step on the balls of your feet, quickly slotting yourself by Michael’s side, on the layers of blankets. 

He’s facing you now, your noses must only be inches apart and you feel his breath running over your cheek.

You try to steady your own breathing, but it only makes your heart beat faster.

You see his neck move as he swallows. “Come here,” he mutters, and brings his arm around you, pressing his palm to your back to pull you closer into his chest.

You let your arm drape over his side and your legs intertwine with his. You need the heat, tucking your head in under his chin and resting the side of your face against him.

You move with the rise and fall of his chest, breathe in the scent of him with every breath, hear his heartbeat against your ear.

If you shifted your head slightly, your lips would meet the base of his throat.

Want tightens and lingers in your stomach, but curled up under Michael’s arm, you let its dull ache soothe you to sleep.

You wake slowly, opening your eyes to cold sunlight glaring through the windows. In your haste to get warm last night, you had apparently forgotten to draw the curtains. All you see on the other side is white, the snow now settled and piled high.

The fire has long since died and the air is colder than it was when you fell asleep, sharp as you take a breath through your nose.

It’s still warm where your cheek meets Michael’s chest, where his hand rests against your back and your bodies are pressed together.

It feels good to be so close to him. He’s still asleep, as far as you can tell. You hear the heavy sound of his breathing, air fluttering in his throat and passing through his pouted lips.

As you start to become more aware, more awake, a warm wanting stirs in your gut and between your legs.

It’s a stupid little crush, one you’ve not been able to distract yourself from these last few months.

You start to trace your fingertips over his chest, feeling where his chest is hard, then soft, and remember everything you said to him the night before, and what you perhaps should have said.

You nuzzle your face in closer to him, to the clean scent of his t-shirt and something else that is so uniquely him.

You try to stay like this for as long as possible, even if it’s torture not to want more.

“You’re moving a lot,” he mutters. You feel his voice rumbling in his chest and humming against your head like it’s a part of you.

Only when you freeze do you realise you’ve been rocking your hips, every hint of friction you get against the fabric of your pyjamas only fueling your hunger. But you’ve stopped now, resting your palm against his stomach.

“I’m cold,” you say.

“Hmm,” he says, resting his lips and his chin against your head, over your hair, “I don’t feel cold.”

The low rasp of his voice only makes you want him more.

The lingering haze of sleep must be clouding your judgement, your sense.

You tilt your head up, brushing your lips over his throat like you’d imagined. You feel him shudder, and feel his stomach tighten under your touch.

He utters your name in a breathless whisper as he paws at your back and pushes his hips into yours. His arousal is evident, hard and pressing to your centre through two layers of fabric.

And then he pauses, and his hand slips away.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says.

You drag your hand down a little further, to slip under his t-shirt and feel the ridges of his surprisingly toned stomach, just above the waistband of his bottoms. “Why are you sorry, Michael?”

“I don’t know, I just…” he huffs in frustration as his hand returns to your body, gripping at your waist through your shirt.

You start to snag your fingers on the waistband, and realise he’s forgone wearing any boxers to bed. “Do you want me to help you?” You whisper, unable to hold back a grin.

“Yes, fuck, please,”

A whine sounds in his throat as you shift his bottoms down just enough to free his cock, and close your hand around it. He’s bigger than you expected, long and thick, heavy, hard and soft-skinned as you stroke, up, down, up, down.

You enjoy the feel of him, run your thumb over his weeping tip as he starts to pant and try to hold back his moans, leaning against you and ghosting his lips against your temple.

You only feel yourself becoming more and more desperate. You hook your leg over his, grinding your core against his thigh. Sparse sparks of pleasure course through your body, not enough for a release, but it still feels good.

You tilt your head again, eagerly pressing your lips to his. He seems taken by surprise at first, but meets you with clumsy enthusiasm. He kisses you like it might save him from something. Once or twice he seems to lose track, dragging his lips to the corner of your mouth only to pull you back into him.

The movements become more and more frantic, your hand pumping Michael’s cock, his hips bucking under your touch.

“Fuck,” he hisses against your lips, “I’m close. Fuck, I’m so close.”

You rock particularly hard against his thigh, and he brings his hand to your rear, squeezing at your flesh and urging you on.

You tease your lips against the shell of his ear, smiling at the wanton noise he makes as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“Are you gonna cum for me Michael?” You whisper as you up the pace.

“Please,” he grunts, “please…” and suddenly he’s moaning against your skin, holding you tightly as you feel his cock pulse in your hand as he spills over your fingers and knuckles.

You quickly move your head back so you can look at him, eyes fluttered shut, jaw slack and tongue just peeking out from behind his teeth.

“You’re so pretty,” you say quietly.

He blinks his eyes open, looking down at you with a dazed smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

“So fucking pretty,” you say, with another drag against his thigh.

He hums, low and cryptic in his chest. “Do you need some help there?”

Before you can answer he’s slipped his hand underneath your pyjamas. He cups your bare, wet cunt, lightly circling over your clit with the tip of his finger.

“Fuck you’re soaked,” he mutters, all but teasing your lips as he leans in to kiss you. “Got yourself all worked up, hmm?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “fuck, don’t tease me, please…”

“Now, sweetheart,” he coos as he presses more firmly against you, hastening his movements so your breath catches in your throat. “We might still have a few hours before anyone comes to get us, and I can think of more than a few ways to pass the time.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

#Michael Gavey #saltburn fanfiction #michael gavey fanfic #michael gavey headcanons #michael gavey fanficiton #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x oc #michael gavey smut #michael gavey x you #michael gavey x y/n #headcanons #smut #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell smut #ewan mitchtell fanfiction #michael gavey oneshot #my fics

[frostironfudge]

Devour - Bucky Barnes

Summary: the new pics of seb have me in a vice grip so here is Bucky on a Mediterranean getaway with you

Pairing: mafia!bucky x fem!reader

Word Count: 880

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, sm/ut, or/al fem receiving, dirt/y talk, allusions to previous smu/tty times, d/s vibes, sorta mafia bucky?, sorta soft moments, also prinţesă means princess (romanian)

A/N: this picture got everything to life for this drabble @sebsgirl71479 thank you for this picture

Main Masterlist

The heat is sweltering.

Drops of sweat mimic the condensation on your pink drink’s glass. Taking another sip you grumble the ice watering down the sweet and sour concoction. 

“Something amiss?” Bucky’s tone is light teasing from behind you. 

“Drinks all watered down.” You pout, still not turning to look at him, too comfortable in the lounge chair, kindle resting on your thigh. 

The breeze finally comes in drawing out a sigh from you and your eyes close. Soon enough the sun’s heat diminishes and your breath hitches. 

The scent of amber and bergamot fills your senses urging your eyes open. Bucky leans over you, gold sunglasses perched atop his head.

Your eyes trail over his stubble growing in, as he swallows you watch his throat and then follow that trail to the necklace that half dangles still caught in his white tank top. 

That same necklace that grazed your kiss bitten lips last night, soothing the heat spreading over your skin. 

An easy smile on his face, his ring clinks against the glass. “Here,” he says handing you the replacement drink and he stands, “Can’t have my best girl pouting can I?” 

You roll your eyes and he pinches your cheek a habit he formed early on both out of endearment and knowing it annoys you. 

You admire his outfit, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Fuck the drink you want to drink your man in. 

“See something you like prinţesă? You have that look on your face.” Azure eyes that put the Mediterranean seas to shame glint with mischief. 

“Oh, I see something I love.” You flirt back, admiring the way his eyes crinkle as his grin takes over. 

“A moment ago,” He returns to his original spot, the one where he hovered over you.

“You seemed as though you saw something you want to devour.” He smirks, head dipped low, lips brushing below your ear, you whimper. 

The pendant of his necklace brushes over your sternum. Cold against warm.

“Bucky—,” Your words meld into a moan when his lips trail down your neck, he leaves open mouthed kisses and your hands find his shirt tugging on it wanting him closer. 

“A little temptress in this swimsuit of yours,” his larger palm traces from your knee up your thigh and you arch but he only continues over your body till he pinches your hardened nipple through the fabric, “Fuck.” 

He reclined the lounge chair further back, caging you in, your leg now wrapped around him. 

Bucky’s lips are on yours, needy, frantic, cock straining against his pants and your hands wandering but pulling him closer. 

He chuckles into the kiss as your fingers aid in the fall of his sunglasses and his hair coming loose from the bun. He loves how needy you become for him. 

How beautiful you look sun kissed and kiss bitten from the night before all of his marks proudly displayed across your chest, shoulder, the one he left on your inner thigh. 

Bucky growls as a particular grind of his hips makes you moan as your clit begs for more attention. 

“Please, Bucky, please,” You plead pushing the soft blue shirt off of his shoulders. 

“Want to taste you, my temptress.” He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lips, you suck on the tip of his finger. 

“I want to taste you too.” You nip at the flesh, Bucky smirks above you. 

“I’d have whipped this outfit out sooner.” He laughs when you huff frustrated, then groans as you grind your hips to his, smirking up at him when he affixes you with a pointed glare to behave. 

“I’ll eat you out right here, prinţesă.” He says in warning, hand moving to cup your mound. He can feel the heat of your skin, his own favourite concoction waiting between your thighs. 

“Is that supposed to scare me?” You raise a brow, “Because if I remember right, no one else sees what belongs to the White Wolf.” 

His eyes blaze with something deeper than lust, his possessiveness and protectiveness for you a known fact in his ruthless world. 

“Hmm, well if anyone does see,” He kisses your cheek, then trails his lips down your neck, over your chest the warmth of his mouth preceded by the cool necklace over your abdomen. Bucky settles between your thighs, pushing them apart but pulling you close. 

Nose brushing over your clothed cunt and the sight is so erotic you can’t help but moan. 

“If anyone does see you pleading and pleasing me they know you are mine temptress. As they should.” 

The fabric is peeled away and your folds are soaked, he hums pleased before his tongue runs over your aching cunt. 

You keen as his lips latch onto your clit, your fingers tangle in Bucky’s hair. 

“Which one of us is in for a treat?” Bucky questions rhetorically as you tremble beneath him, his rings digging into your thighs. 

Bucky moans, at your taste, “We’re to remain here my temptress. I want to have my fill. You will give me how ever many I want won’t you?” 

You nod.

“My good fucking girl.” He praises, mouth back on you, your moans pleasing his ears and your taste satiating as well as growing his hunger for you. 

-x-x-x-x-

Bucky Taglist: @slutforsexyseabass @almostcontentcreator @stevesmewmew

#bucky barnes au #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes one shot #james buchanan barnes #bucky x plus size reader #bucky x female reader #buck barnes fic #james barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fluff #sebastian stan #bucky x yn #the winter soldier x you #frostironfudge #bucky barnes x plus size reader #james buchanan barnes x you #white wolf #bucky is the best #bucky x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #modern au #bucky x y/n #bucky fic

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Ok but what if

What if Ghost was a knight (again) and then there's a spoiled, presumptuous lady who's bored (again)

She's the kind of princess who was dearly loved because she was a girl. No one knows why, because everyone knows girls are a liability. But she has been treasured and sheltered all her life, she always got everything she wanted, and now she's stupid enough to fall for Simon who has lived a life full of war and torment and who is not the kind of stray dog you would want to feed.

Our poor lady doesn't know she's playing with fire when she's toying with her father's (Price?) most loyal soldier: a brooding, tall, broad man who got his knighthood after this campaign or that. This outlander, Simon, catches her attention because he rarely speaks and never smiles, but makes her smallclothes wet because he has an ill look about him: a broken nose and a thin lipped, downturned mouth. This sir is looking everyone from under his brow like they're mere children in his eyes. The only time she's heard him speak is when he's barking orders in the courtyard.

She teases and teases and teases him: flirting every chance she can get, giving him soft brushes that barely remain within the bounds of propriety. She bestows heated stares that linger a little too long, she licks and parts her lips when they walk past each other in the cold, dimly lit corridors of the castle. He never returns any of her flirts.

Except the stares.

She can feel his eyes on her even when she's not looking. That coal-like stare is fixed on her wherever she goes: it's hot and cold at the same time, like embers that are kindling under long-forgotten ashes.

He's interested… But only in a way that a hungry, beaten, suspicious dog is interested when it's staring at a meaty bone, trying to decode if it's a treat or a trap.

He finally has enough one day when she dares to smile at him: softly, knowingly, like a whore in a tavern.

The gauntlet closes around her neck like an iron collar. She can smell the horses and the sweat and the dirty leather as the man she has dreamed of seizes her and pushes her back against a wall.

"Is this what you want? Hm?"

She finally hears him speak: dark, gravelly, and borderline exhausted from all the games she plays. Were he to hold her a little more tightly, she would call it a choke, a soft and slow strangling. The intensity is enough to make her heart flutter and her stare escape somewhere to the grey stone wall. There's no way she can meet that heated stare, now filled with flames and lust.

The knight she used to fantasize about is about to snap. The stoic, cold man is about to lose control at any given moment, and she's about to lose her maidenhood along with that shattered self-control.

He presses his whole body against her: leather and steel and hardened muscle, all that rough, well fed, thick flesh forged in countless battles is pressed against her frame like she is nothing but a flower. Her woolen dress is a poor shield against all the hard ridges of his armour, the pommel of his sword digs into her side painfully, but she pays it no mind. There's something equally as hard and demanding pressed against the apex between her legs. She's forced to rise to her toes from the way he drives his swollen cock up her cunt, and even if there's layers and layers of clothing between them, she can feel the heat of him.

"'S not a good idea to tease a starved dog," he snarls while watching her lose her confidence. All of it, because it was only ever a charade. A silly daydream of a silly young woman, just an attempt to distract herself, a pastime game that happened to turn into a dangerous obsession.

And he growls. He actually growls like a hound when she's suddenly so weak she can't even provide him with an answer. It's a dark rumble that meets her chest, a hot, slow breath that passes across her frightened skin. She feels like floating: his cock raises her from the ground as he tries to fuck into her through their clothes. The ironclad hand has never even seen mercy as it turns her head to the side for him to have a good sniff of her neck and hair.

"Sir," her lips tremble; her whole jaw is making it clear that she's about to cry soon. There's not enough stones on the wall for her to count if he decides to take her here. "Simon…? Please, sir. I'm a virgin…"

#cw: dark content #meeting on the turret stairs but with more dubcon #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #knight!ghost #medieval au #sansan vibes

[aemonds-sapphire]

Take a Seat

Summary: You tell Aemond you can´t stand him. He invites you to take a seat.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Face riding. Oral sex. Aemond is a tease. Aemond's nose is amazing. Masturbation. Aemond’s POV.

Word count: 1.3k

“Aemond!”

Your screech reverberated through the walls of his bedchambers.

The young prince reckoned it wouldn’t take much longer before your angry voice was heard yet again.

“Aemond!”

There it was.

A wave of satisfaction rippled along his entire body as anticipation gradually built up.

“Where are my clothes?” you bellowed in frustration from inside the bathing room. “Your sister awaits me! I will be late.”

Truth be told, Aemond dreaded having to part ways with you this early in the morning. Selfishness might be an overstatement.

He preferred to see it as a need.

The need to have you around and all to himself.

To consume all of you.

So, he decided to hide your clothes and bath towel while you were readying yourself for another day at court.

Quite a dull a fair, in his opinion.

He could deliver so much more to you than a day of walking around behind his sister and tending to her needs.

What about his needs?

And yours?

His antics proved to be enough to kindle your anger and frustration, which would only work in his favour in the end.

The dragon always comes out victorious.

As soon as your burst into the room, dripping wet and ready to pounce him, Aemond felt a rush of blood flooding downwards in a subtle tingling sensation.

“What did you do with my clothes?” you growled, taking large steps in his direction. “I will be late!”

Aemond merely shrugged, grateful that his ever growing erection was neatly hidden away from you under the bed cover.

He watched in sheer delight as you grabbed a pillow and tossed it at him, which he promptly deflected with one hand, his reflexes sharp as ever.

“You are so… infuriating!” you sighed in exasperation.

A teasing smile curled his lips. Getting under your skin had become one of his favourite pastimes. It got you all riled up with this pent-up tension that he’d so gladly fuck out of you.

But then something else crossed his mind.

Oh… you were probably going to flip at this.

But he was feeling particularly daring and willing to push you a little more than usual.

“I’m feeling feverish,” he started. “There’s this pain….”

And just as he had predicted, the visible traces of anger on your face faded into a worried look.

You sat naked on the edge of the bed, placing the back of your hand to his forehead.

“Where does it hurt?”

Aemond lifted the bedsheets, revealing his hard cock to you. “Here.”

You immediately scowled at how shameless he was.

“I was seriously worried!”

And just as you stood up and were about to smack him, he took the opportunity to grab both your wrists and had your leg swing over his body with such refined skill you were left sitting on his bare torso at lightning speed.

You tried to jerk free from his grasp. “Aemond! I’m going to be late!”

He honestly couldn’t care less. Having you fully naked and on top of him only served to further ignite his desire for you.

“Your sister awaits me near the gates of King’s Landing,” you huffed in annoyance. “We are going for a walk today.”

“I’ll fly you there on Vhagar if I have to,” he said casually, rubbing both thumbs along your pulse points. “I am sure my sister can do without you for a while, my lady.”

Once again, you yanked both arms in an attempt to break free, but all in vain. He was far too strong, and he wasn’t willing to let go of you just yet.

“I cannot stand you!” you growled menacingly.

What a blatant lie.

All that forced outrage had his cock twitch in anticipation. How he adored fucking you into submission, peeling off all those layers that you so vehemently insisted on keeping on just to have him crawl for you.

You were aware of your hold on him. If you really wanted to, you’d be able to bend him to your will.

He’d do everything and anything for you.

“Say that again.”

Your eyes narrowed with renowned defiance. “I cannot stand you.”

“Then sit on my face.”

Your eyes then widened in surprise. “What?”

Aemond wanted to let go of his hold on you have his hands cup your breasts, but he decided against it. He wanted to make sure you were fully committed to him.

“Let me taste you,” he insisted, his cock throbbing lightly.

You faltered briefly as you clenched your thighs around him. “You’re so…”

“So what, my lady?”

Aemond then let go of you, knowing fully well he had you trapped.

“Infuriating.”

“I’ll take that as compliment,” he said and with one hand, he smacked your ass lightly, but you didn’t budge.

“I… I am going to be late…”

Aemond was a patient man, but his patience was wearing thin. “Then stop wasting time and ride my face.”

You hesitated at first, but caved in eventually. He slid his pillow to the side so that he could be the perfect seat for you. Carefully, you lifted yourself from him before finally settling directly above his face.

Aemond wouldn’t mind parting ways with life with the sight of your inviting pussy as his last memory.

What a glorious way to go.

He nearly letting out a groan and a sigh of relief rumbled across his chest the moment you were fully sitting on him.

Instinctively, he brought both hands to grip your thighs. The delicious moan that escaped your lips was incentive enough for him and without much effort he parted his lips and delved his tongue deep inside you.

Delicious.

“Oh…”

You were so fucking endearing. The fact that you were still surprised that he could deliver all that pleasure with just a few strokes of his skillful tongue did wonders to his ego.

Your folds encased the corners of his mouth, as if trying to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

And he had no intention of doing so.

Aemond was well aware of how to increase the pleasure he delivered to you.

He knew you would quiver from feeling his nose pressing into your swollen clit.

The moment he did so, his hands had to grip your thighs harder to keep you in place from all the shuddering.

An intense shiver ran down his spine as he was able to feel the pulse from your throbbing clit on his nose.

Truthfully, he simply could never get tired of how your body responded to him so eagerly.

His hips to shot up reflexively as his cock twitched from the need to be buried inside you.

“Aemond… not … not the—”

Your words faded and turned into a pleasurable moan as soon as his tongue went deeper, forcing his nose to press into you harder than before.

Aemond was still able to watch you gripping the headboard for support, before shutting his eyes as overwhelming bliss filled him. His cock throbbed with each heartbeart and the skin at the base pulling as he hardened even more.

He kept tongue-fucking you, drinking in your juices and your whimpers. Your wetness was now spreading across his chin, and he brought one of his hands to free his cock from the sheet on top, allowing it to spring free. The dire need to fuck you was ever growing.

But he had would have you reach your peak on his face rather than his around his cock.

The way his nose rubbed your clit caused your hips to buck and jerk from the stimulation, forcing his other hand to increase his grip even more on you to keep you in place as you were riding his face.

“Oh… oh… Aemond…”

You were done for.

And so was he.

He wrapped his fingers around his leaking and needy cock, yearning for nothing more than relief. It was becoming unbearable to feel your heartbeat invade his mind and travel down his body in rhythmic waves of pleasure.

A high-pitched moan fell from your lips. “Aemond… my prince… please…”

Aemond had no need of your words of approval or praise or bliss. He could feel your pleasure and that was all he needed.

Showing was far more saturated than telling.

The obscene slurping sounds coming from him were enough to have his hips jerk once again as he fucked his hand desperately.

He was too close.

Almost embarrassingly so.

He was aware that pumping his own cock drastically hindered his endurance. There was only so much he could withstand.

Soon enough, he felt your thighs begin to quiver erratically as he ran his tongue along the sensitive clit.

With a few more jerks from your hips, you were catapulted into your orgasm, shaking violently into his face while raking your fingers through his hair before gripping a few strands forcefully.

“Good… so good…” you cried out too lost in your own pleasure as a gush of your wetness flooded his tongue.

Not long after, he felt your legs begin spasm uncontrollably. And he didn’t just feel this because they were tightening around his head; he felt your every contraction and twitch as he brought his nose to tease your swollen bud, tongue still lodged between your soaked folds.

And that was precisely what pushed him over the edge.

The overwhelming pleasure took over him completely and Aemond reached the point of no return. Hot spurts of cum shot from his tip with each spasm of his own body; the muscles in his thighs and lower abdomen tightened along with his balls.

No words in High Valyrian or any other tongue could do justice to the intense pleasure that took over him.

A few strands of hot liquid ran down his fingers, but he paid no mind to the mess. His own heart pounded insanely loud inside his ears and he stopped breathing for a moment as a guttural growl ripped through his throat through gritted teeth.

You slid off to the side, allowing his deep groans to echo around the bedchamber.

Aemond’d endurance was something he took pride in, but a powerful release was still enough to have him panting and feeling lightheaded. Your juices were spread across his chin and lips and jaw and nose with a few drops running down his face.

“I still cannot stand you…” you struggled to say in between pants.

He licked the excess liquid from his lips, locking his eye with your hazy ones. “Are you challenging me to bring you to your peak once more?”

“I am already late,” you protested, struggling to slide out of bed and nearly tripping as your legs wobbled from having your strained leg muscles.

Aemond couldn’t help but to chuckle as you tried your best to keep your balance.

“I will carry you to Vhagar and fly you there,” he offered. “I doubt you’ll be able to walk regardless.”

It was in moments like these that Aemond was thankful to his fast reflexes as his hand prevented yet another pillow from reaching his face.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #aemond x reader #aemond x you #hotd smut

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

horny, sulky, kinda mean, kinda roughhousing könig thought bc it's my birthday, it's 2:50am, i have been horny like a fuckin werewolf for like a week now. f!reader ig for talk about pussy.

So our man König doesn’t keep normal hours—not that you do, but dude is two days back from KorTac and pretty much strung out on the “fun” amphetamines KorTac req officers pass out like candy if you even wave smth that looks like a form at them. So kind of out of the worst of it, exhausted, but wired and feeling kind of shitty and toothy and wound up.

He wants to fuck. Easiest way to diffuse, decompress, and he’s hard as shit by the time he lumbers his way into bed with you—over you—all around you. You were reading off your kindle, not anymore. He plucks that shit right out of your hand and puts it behind him, tangling those long, heavy limbs around you like a boa constrictor.

“Was wondering when this was going to happen,” you say, hissing when he’s none to kind in nipping the skin of your neck, wrapping his arms around your torso, pushing your breasts up under your t-shirt. “Shit, you’re moody,” it’s half a laugh, and a grapple at not immediately just folding and giving into him. You like to bite, too.

“Give me your mouth,” he grunts, nose pushed into the spot behind your ear. He’s pushing down your underwear, singlemindedly stripping you down. His words make your skin humid, “Gonna play with your pussy, want you fucking wet for me.”

You give that little bit, turning your head over your shoulder, smirking into a kiss that drives deliriously deep as soon as contact is made. König isn’t a prim kisser, but a primal one. It’s not a clean act; sloppy, yes, and somehow tinged with something kin to restrained violence. Challenge? Dick swinging? Maybe something more biblical in nature—gluttony, or greed.

He’s a fearsome thing, and he may only be beautiful to you. A needful thing, too, twisting nest of starved serpents—6 feet 10 inches and pushing-300-lbs of fucking muscle, battering-ram-body housing more than thirty years of neglect-crushed memory out for retribution.

But you never were a target. He didn’t have a choice in that matter. You both know good and goddamned well that you picked him. Everything he gets away with is at your allowance, and good fucking Christ, he loves you for it.

His cock throbs against your bare ass through his boxers as his arm wraps around you, craning his hand to pump two big fingers into your sopping cunt, angling his wrist so he can press and rub your clit with his thumb.

Man’s got his perversions, and he’s the most physical person you’ve ever met in your life. He’s had a fraction of the sex he’s fantasized about, but you’ve covered hectares of that ground since you’ve gotten together. He’s a quick study, and his mind’s a nightmare of steel trap memory. He never forgets what you like.

Two fingers turn to three, and he almost pushes it to four—assured torture, too much stretch too fast—before you snap a hand around his wrist and buck hard back against him, seething his name in warning. “Don’t fucking dare.”

“Ja. Ja, Schatzi,” he mumbles, breathing hard and too collected. You’re both sweating already, and the bed feels too damn warm, but neither of you shift. The spooning position is perfect as-is, only needs acted upon. In the mean time, he draws his slicked fingers up, leaving them in the air before your mouth in question. He groans and shudders harshly when you take the digits into your mouth, almost laughing at the ever-fresh amusement of your own taste. Salt and cold coins, your own metallic tang a complement to the one on his skin. His voice shakes as he warns, “Time, now. It’s time, bitte, aw, fuck.”

Just like that, he sinks right into you, to the base, balls pressed tight against your lips due to your body’s contortioning to meld against his form. An ungodly moan bellows out of his throat, rattling from his chest into yours, arms tightening around you. You meet the fuck-weird noises, turning your head to keen into your pillows and pressing back against him. Your hand anchors behind you on his hip, as if pinning him in place, affixing your bodies together.

You both hang in a moment of suspension, hearts pounding, minds blank, stomachs rising as if careening over a hill with momentum not sparing you a moments reprieve.

When that finally snaps, you have to force him to focus, to fuck, and he’s slow about it, grinding into you as your cunt sucks him deeper.

That huge hand you know so well drops between your legs, right back to toying with you. Oh it doesn’t take long to get you off, bent in half on your side, holding onto him and gasping as you’re hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

He’s not subtle to signal when it’s his turn. He pulls you back up and clamps his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of your shirt, fucking you rough, now, and unheeding, like an animal in heat. When he finally finishes, spasming and jolting all over now that his balls have been emptied into you, he leaves his heavy arm over your waist, keeping you close. “Good shit,” he mumbles, throat sticking to itself it’s so dry as he pants, parched, “we split a smoke?”

You’re not much better, even though you’ve bravado to fucking spare. “I smoke. You go the hell to sleep now,” you try to sound stern and dismissive, but there’s a laugh in your tone some place. And fondness, undeniably. You feel his grin against your neck, his body purring mhm in question. “Feel better?” you ask, at length, stroking the hair on his forearms.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, weak and sweet with relief, “can sleep now.” A pause, you can hear him thinking. “Won’t, though. Because you were an asshole and had to bring it up first.” His laugh wheezes, low and susurring.

#konig #könig #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #teehee and as usual it's just my oc dressed up as a reader yall know the drill by now

[will-o--the-wisp]

That boy is a monster.

smut under the cut // MDNI

Diluc Ragnvindr x bottom male!reader

cws: male reader, monster cock diluc (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶), anal fingering, deepthroating.

THIS IS PART ONE OF TWO.

“T-that’s” (Name)’s voice breaks as he looks down, heat rising into his head as his confidence lowers. The heady high of arousal is washed off by the feeling of skin resting on his tummy “Diluc, that’s going to kill me” The words come out choked, evidence of both the panic and surprise at the new development. That being, the absolute monster of a cock currently resting next to his one, spanning from where Diluc is resting between his legs, pelvises pressed together, to past his belly button, adding to a hefty girth.

“You flatter me dear” Diluc responds, blush conquering his face. The (Name)’s face has to have a very distinct expression of dread because Diluc continues without missing a beat. “We can’t stop for today if you want dear,it’s not-”

“No!” (Name) says, maybe a little loud. The few seconds have allowed for surprise to ebb into curiosity, the hunger for contact kindling into a flame again. His hands fly to cover his face, embarrassment filling him at his next words “Just.. prepare me well ok?”

“Of course I will dear, don’t worry” Diluc chuckles lightly, bringing his front down just to kiss the skin of the other's forehead his hands don’t cover. “Just relax for me”

The weight of Diluc’s body disappears from the top of him, and his hands fall to the bed, his muscles relaxing. His eyes follow the muscled curve of Diluc’s back, corded muscles moving as he opens a drawer, producing a bottle of processed slime condensate from it “I asked Albedo for it” He justifies the existence of the little bottle quickly. “I knew… this” He lowers his eyes pointedly “Would be difficult.”

“You’re such a sweetheart, Diluc” (Name) responds, allowing himself a chuckle. “Now come here”

“As my prince wants” Diluc smiles in return, sitting on the bed and taking hold of his partner's thighs, opening them more to take a good look at him. He traces (Name)’s erect cock with one finger, the slight contact enough to draw a small moan and a shiver out of the other “How cute.” Diluc says as he circles his hand around the hot skin, moving his hand up and down a few times experimentally, drawing more low sounds of pleasure from the other’s mouth. “Just tell me if it gets too much ok?” Diluc asks, ever the gentleman.

“Yes” The answer comes out in the form of a squeak and the shake of a head. “‘T feels good”

“I'm glad to hear that” Diluc says, pausing for a second to open the bottle and smearing the lubricant on his fingers, rubbing them to heat it a bit. “I'm going to start opening you up dear” He circles the tight hole with his thumb, smearing more of the lube as (Name) makes a vague noise of affirmation. He starts with his middle finger, slowly pushing it in all the way and starts pistoning it with a crescendoing rhythm.

(Name)’s breath stutters at the feeling. It feels so different to have another person’s fingers inside him. He’s eyed Dilucs hands before, big, robust hands with long, firm fingers, hands used to handling a heavy claymore. Just one finger inside him is making fog invade his mind, losing himself to the pleasure as his whole body relaxes.

It doesn’t take long for the pliant hole to accept a second finger. “You’re doing amazing dear.” Diluc says fondly as he moves his fingers in and out, scissoring them at intervals, watching a steady amount of precum drip from his partner’s dick. He licks his lips and without pausing his hand, brings his head down, his mouth enveloping the whole of (Name)’s shaft.

“Diluc!” The other exclaims, hands shooting down to hold into fiery red hair, as Diluc bobs his head experimentally, introducing a third finger without much resistance. “Fuck….fuckfuck diluc don’t stop please” (Name)’s voice is reduced to whining as he feels himself go from tolerable pleasure to close to the edge at an alarming rate.

“’m close” Diluc decides that is time to take him into his throat at the same time that he curls his fingers, rubbing on that spot that makes him seize. (Name)’s whole body tenses as his hands pull on silky hair, Diluc swallowing the cum shot directly into his throat with no problem, sucking him through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“Are you sufficiently prepared now, dear?”

#male reader #sub male reader #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #diluc smut #diluc x reader

[vonev]

Zombie apocalypse with Simon Riley

Sum: You finally meet your hot neighbor; albeit all it took was an apocalyptic disaster.

Oh my God, what the fuck?

“—reports states that an infectious zombie-like virus has begun to spread amongst multiple areas in the city—”

“—Please seek the nearest hazard shelter in your local area—”

A fucking zombie virus breakout is happening, in front of your lunch.

You'd never thought the national emergency alarms would ever blare during your lifespan, but you're here, a spoon full of egg drop soup in hand sitting across your TV and your mouth hung open as all your devices deafens the entire living room.

The telenovela you were watching was just getting so good too.

Immediately shooting your hand out to fetch your phone, scrambling for the national notification, horror dawns on you.

The fucking breakout is in my city.

Isn't it so lovely? On a random Tuesday afternoon in the middle of an approaching autumn.

What is it that they do in those zombie shows again...? Oh yeah, run.

Wait—no, no. Pack your shit then run.

So you did. Your feet working the fastest they've ever been scattering toward your bedroom to dig out the ancient duffel bag you've not touched in eons. Shoving essentials in there: tampons, pads, your Kindle (because God forbid an apocalypse stops you from finishing a book) and a couple of other things you think you'd need...a thong is one of them, right?

The loud alarms never stops, it only adds to your increasing anxiety threatening to bubble over and spill all over the floor; you didn't think they'd go on for so long, but they do, and honestly they sound fucking terrifying.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think—

Wallet, passport (in case you wanted to fly over to Milan, you know.), all the money you had was stored inside the bank; speaking of, you wonder if anyone had started robbing stores yet after the alarms sounded.

Nope, can't think about that right now, because the more time you waste, the higher of a chance you'd end up having your face bitten off by some freaks—zombie or not. So you scramble once again, head full of doubts and worry; good thing you kept refraining yourself from ever getting a pet because holy shit having to sprint with a massive fluff ball in your arm would be the last thing you'd want to do.

Just then, screams started filling your ears; an indication that you spent too much time dwindling.

Looking down you scoff at your casual wear: a tank top that exposed too much and sweatpants. Making your way out along your bedroom you snatched a jacket you promised yourself you'd wash last week.

Good thing you didn't, I guess.

Stepping foot into the living room once more, your eyes dart around in a hurry, practically running into the kitchenette to grab canned foods and your leftovers from yesterday. It's just a sandwich, but it'll hopefully last until whenever you can finally eat again. You repeated the same conundrum with your bathroom, frantically pushing things aside with more things to make space for other things.

Alright, you think, that should be everything...

You even got that first-aid kit you bought from Amazon months ago, thinking that someday you'll need it.

Always trust your instincts.

With that, you waste no time scurrying to the front door, fitting yourself into a comfortable pair of shoes then fetching your keys from the bowl above the accent table you probably spent too much money on (they looked really cute) and inserting it into the lock, cursing yourself when you kept missing the keyhole. Eventually, you got it, and with too much brute force, you threw the door open and stepped out into the hall.

You wince from the loud banging sound of the door you pushed; to your right, your neighbor's door opens as you walk out.

Tilting your head, you see the neighbor casually fixing his shoes with absolutely no care regarding the current situation, a bag slung over his broad shoulder in contrast to you desperately holding onto your heavy duffel bag.

What the fuck is his deal? How is he so...calm?

You didn't realize it 'till now, but said neighbor turns his head toward you, and it's as if a lightbulb flare up in your head.

Oh.

He stares at you, unmoving with his hand still on the doorknob.

It's the hot neighbor.

What was his name again? Sam...Samuel...no, Semen...wait, definitely not.

Whatever. You'll call him Semen in your head, because you can't be bothered standing there to recall his name. Not while he's staring at you so intently, either—like you owed him something.

God, is he a sight to look at; full brows with lips looking so kissable with a cute pout, blonde strands covers his front as though he'd just woken up from the best nap of his life, the faint yet noticeable scars littered across his face so perfectly. Tall, mysterious and muscles that threatened the seams of the too-tight shirt he wore. Is he even aware? 

And his eyes.

You can't even begin to mention the amount of times you'd shamefully indulged yourself with those eyes of his in your mind—sometimes, you dream of them too. Who could blame you though? Yeah, you definitely feel normal about him. You barely interacted with him, only ever seeing him the rare times he'd come home. You assumed he's ex-military or a military personnel on leave since he's been back home more than usual in the recent months. You wouldn't know, though, considering the most words you said to him was "hi" when he moved into his flat a year ago. That, and you're generally kinda afraid of strangers.

"D'ya have a staring problem?"

Right. You can't just stare at someone and not say anything, that's creepy.

"No," you shuffle on your feet a little. "Do you?"

He scoffs with a small shake of his head and closes the door behind him before walking away to the lift. Your brows furrowed, lips pursed, slung your duffel bag over your shoulder and chased after him. You both stood in front of the lift for a good (incredibly awkward) minute before the familiar ding sounded. Once inside the lift, you can't help but feel the unspoken tension rise as the two of you stood close to each other.

You swear he had his eyes on you for a moment, but you don't dare to call him out.

"...you come ‘round often?"

He snaps his gaze to you instantly.

Great. Your mouth has no filter whatsoever. Mentally slapping yourself, you open your mouth to whisper an apology; he beats you to it, though, a soft chuckle from him and it strikes into your heart like a stake.

"I live—lived here," crossing his arms, his eyes softened a little. "Just got discharged from the military a couple of months ago."

Bingo.

Silently patting your back in your head as you nod at his response and humming. "That's cool, what did you do for the military?" it may have been too much to pry, but it doesn't hurt; plus, it's pretty much the end of the world as you speak.

He stood there, completely rigid from top to bottom. The silence was deafening this time around, so much so that when the lift sounded once more with a loud ding, it made you flinch.

"What didn't I do for the military?"

That's...

"...is that rhetorical?" None of you walked out of the lift, just standing there in each other’s company. Oddly, you don’t mind it.

He shrugs, getting out of the tiny space—and you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in your breath when you finally exhaled through your teeth.

I guess I have my answer.

It doesn’t take long for you to catch up, nor for the two of you to realize what an utter mess the outside world had become when he opens the door.

People roamed about, running ‘round and tripping over each other and on top of each other, cooperating on wreaking absolute havoc on the streets. Lots of screaming, too much of it, in fact. Jogging down the stairs, someone almost bumps into your side, but not before he pulls them back with a frown on his face that had the poor guy screeching and scrambling away from his grip.

Oh, now come to think of it—

—“Hey what’s your n—“

A hoard of groans catches your attention, cutting your words short; you turn toward the source, squinting at the scene from afar. A group of people started dashing toward your way, their faces an evident blur of confusion, surprise and horror. It would make sense, because as they slowly get closer and closer, a giant figure gradually appears in your vision—and it looks fucking disfigured—like the textbook embodiment of an eldritch creature. Sure enough, it breaks out into a sprint, chasing down its next victim; pulling the back of an unfortunate businessman’s suit and it flung the man over its head. You can hear the poor man’s scream echo in your mind as you watch his body fall right into the creature’s mouth; next thing you know, his head snaps off in its jaw.

Your blood runs cold, the shock from seeing such a sight sends an unnerving terror through every nerve; your breathing gets heavier, beads of sweat breaking out from your skin—yet you can’t take your eyes off of it. Ever watched a car crash? Yeah, exactly that.

“Uh oh.”

You don’t know what to do; years and years of medical training in school hadn’t exactly prepared you for this situation, even if some of the things you’ve seen are horror beyond comprehension. Your body doesn’t cooperate with your commands no matter how hard you try; they’re stuck to the ground like glue, and as the horrid looking creature slowly bolts toward your way, the way you’ve become a mere spectator to your body should concern you, but your eyes are transfixed on that thing—

—it wasn’t until someone roughly tug your forearm that you realized you almost fucking killed yourself by standing still too long.

“Fuck, come on, let’s go.”

You should’ve probably questioned why he’s remained so calm despite the calamity surrounding him. It’s an admirable trait, really, a part of you wants to thank him profusely for not leaving you behind; in the span of time you spaced out, he could’ve easily gotten away in a fleet—like a gust of the wind, and you wouldn’t have noticed nor would you have blamed him. So much for being medically trained. 

He ran, and you trailed right behind him. Even during such a dire moment of your life, you have to try your hardest to not get distracted with the way his muscles contract as he swiftly moves along with the breeze. No time for thirsting, you stare at his arms, how they effortlessly flex with each step, Okay, maybe a little bit of thirsting.

You’ve no idea how long you both ran; doing your best to dodge every obstacle lunged into your face, but with the soreness slowly creeping up your soles, you wonder if you could keep up—Semen, on the other hand, is doing just fine. Just keep pushing, after all, how hard is it to run forever? Super fucking hard apparently; unfortunate for you, the conveniently placed fallen pipe on the ground became your nemesis as you missed a jump and fall on your fucking face. Your duffel bag cushioning only your left arm, body absorbing all the impact from the fall.

Ouch! wouldn’t even describe the pain you were feeling. You might have a broken nose because it sure fucking feels like it. 

Semen immediately halts, his head snaps back as if his gut instinct told him you stumbled and fell. He’d be correct; attempting to get on your elbows can only get you so far, your adrenaline runs out too quickly—and suddenly it feels as though your body has been lit on fire. Well, you’re being dramatic, but your ankle sure doesn’t feel fine like it did a minute ago. You try to stand up, and Semen crouches down in front of you with his hands extending out to help you up; but the harder he pulls the worse you cry out. When you try to move your right ankle it just fucking hurts like a bitch. 

This is it, you think; your breath coming out haggard and harsh, I’m gonna fucking die. 

“Just—go, just go, I think I sprained my ankle,” holding back furious tears, you sniffle. “Leave me and run, it’s okay.” God, was it ever this hard to let someone go? Even if the selfish part of you wants him to stay. He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, people and vehicles running by your bodies and their cries fill the void in your head—not their fault they prioritize their lives over yours—but it still stings your eyes to think about. People really do show their true colors in the most desperate times.

He reaches over, and you almost swatted his arms away—his stern gaze told you to stop, and you did.

Flipping you over in an instant, his arms hook under your back and knees, hoisting you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. In a feat of panic, you push against his chest; you can’t stress how much you’d rather not be the reason he’s held back and be killed for it. He sends you a final warning look; a stare so chilling it had you reeling back your arms into your chest and obediently lay against his.  

Impressively, he maneuvers around everyone else with ease, dodging and zig-zagging, only bumping a few shoulders here and there. Worry clouds your head; what if he trips? Or better yet, what if he realized you’re not much of use and dumped you on the streets? It’s absurd you’d even have the luxury to overthink while he’s busting his ass to save both of your lifes—how the fuck are you supposed to make up to that? You can’t bake him your infamous croissants (you’ve mastered the craft), you doubt appliances are as convenient in the wild as it is in homes—you hope he’ll find a place to hide soon; he can’t run infinitely. 

Maybe you should stop thinking too much useless shit and start strategizing instead.

Okay, it should be easy; your eyes frantically search the surrounding area: the alleyway? No, way too risky. Run into one of the homes? Still risky, and those nasty creatures were breaking into them from what you saw last. Fuck, you wish you’d bought that expensive ass car few weeks ago when it was on sale, then again, who knew you would require it so soon? Wait, did he have a car? You don’t think so, his designated parking slot has been empty since forever.

As he kept sprinting on, you noticed more and more of those zombies started pouring in from multiple angles—it would be harder and harder to avoid their attacks; you try not to dwell on the gruesome sights of people being mauled down the streets. Out of nowhere, a mangled arm lunged at you, though he swerved just in time to avoid; you didn’t even have time to register what occurred until you blinked again. 

“Was that—holy fuck,” your body involuntarily shivers at how close you were to dying right then; all his efforts would’ve gone to waste. It served as a reminder that death is now only a mere hand reach; one wrong breath and say bye-bye to your life. 

Mortality is such a fragile thing.

At least you don’t have a family making you worry to death about, just good ol’ you—always been you.

Does he? Eyes drifting over to his face, you trace the scars on his neck with an invisible hand. You’d have to play 21 questions with him later, if there’s a later. Seeing how things are moving, you’re slowly coming to terms with the concept of death; for some odd reason, you just know he’d keep you alive as long as he can—you will too, with him. God, you grunt, this feels so sappy. You have to constantly remind yourself that you’ve known your neighbor properly for less than an hour; don’t get too attached. It only ever comes back to bite your ass.

In your peripheral you notice a sluggish zombie digging into the driver’s side of a sizable car through the broken window—blood splatters the inside of the car’s windshield as the zombie dives further in. The car is alive, tugging at his shirt, you hastily gesture toward the spot with a shaky finger. Peering up, you don’t miss the way his brows knit together and how his lips are pulled into a thin line—he understood soon afterward; and switched his path to match the direction of the vehicle. 

He’d have to fight with the obscene thing for it, but it’s worth a try, even with you in his arms.

Approaching it, he doesn’t hesitate to kick a leg up to hook it under the weighted zombie and throw him down to the biting asphalt; just as it was about to spring up—he stomps a leg over its head without a hitch. Oh my fucking God, excuse your blasphemy, that’s the brain matter. You would know how a human’s brain looked; with countless hours spent plastering your head onto your textbook about How To Surgically Remove a Brain for Dummies the image practically tattooed itself on your mind. It’s never a good view, the textbooks can’t accurately reinvent the feeling of disgusting sliminess into their pages after all. 

Your knight in shining armor doesn’t prolong his luck; throwing the driver’s door open, he ducked his head into the driver’s seat (not before chucking the dead body laid in the seat out), sliding you into the passenger side; you have to awkwardly make fit for yourself in the seat as he rushed into his side and pressed down on the brake, slamming his door closed. There was no time to relax, though, upon seeing him toy with the car, people started piling over the trunk, clawing at the metal slate with their bloodied nails as more zombies lurked closer—few unlucky numbers were dragged away from the car, leaving a myriad of gory handprints behind on the trunk. 

He grits his teeth, he holds an arm out in front of you; confused, you turned to him as he slammed down on the acceleration. 

“Oof—” That’ll knock the wind out of you.

It’s proven to be challenging for him to drive down a road filled with civilians; but soon enough, people started parting ways for him and a few other vehicles to pass through, afraid of being hit by a car. 

“Buckle up, love.”

Huh? Love? 

On the outside, you’re as calm and cool as you can be: you know, in a zombie apocalypse with your handsome neighbor driving you to (hopefully) safety; the inside…it feels as though your heart soared into the sky—you know it wasn’t meant to be flirtatious, but damn it, a girl can dream. Scrambling your hands to reach for the seatbelt, you grimaced at the sight of gooey matter dotting its material, you buckled up anyway; better safe than sorry. And because he asked so nicely, your heart flutters once more.

He drove on for quite a while, managing to duck and swerve others on the road (albeit with a lot of trouble) and eventually reaching the highways—not that it was far, but you’ve never exactly drove, or been outside your little area. Why would you need to? Everything you’d ever need was there: a delicious shawarma shop across from your flat, embroidery store…in case you needed some embroidering done, a family-owned Indian restaurant that served the best naan and dal—point is, you’ve pretty much got everything covered in your small area.

But why do you feel like you’re missing something…

…your fucking duffel bag. 

Everything was in there—your ID’s, necessities, your fucking family photo back when you were a baby; it all holds importance to you one way or another—

—and they’re gone.

Slumped against your seat, you hadn’t even realized your shoulders started convulsing until teardrops fell on your curled fists in your lap. How could you be so fucking careless? Tilting your head down, your hands fly up to rub away stray tears that can’t seem to stop falling from your eyes regardless of your effort; you hope he hasn’t noticed (he did, eyes squinting in worry and unsure) because you seem pretty fucking pathetic right now. 

(He doesn’t mind, he’s more worried your tears will drown the both of you before getting to the motel)

“We’re,” for some reason, words get caught in his throat—congealed, like an immovable lump—watching you silently sob to yourself from the side. "We're going to a motel."

He shouldn’t care; he doesn’t know why he does, especially since you’re still a stranger (that he saved, again, he’s not sure why) he coincidentally shared a hallway with for about a year; he barely knew you, either, only knowing you by name because he had seen it stamped on a few mails that fell from your mailbox. He also knows that you bake, a lot, often times the smell would traverse through the small cracks underneath his door and reach his senses—he’d debate knocking on your door each time, he wouldn’t know what to say though: “I smelled your baking, they smell amazing, can I take the whole thing?” or “‘Aye you’re actually kinda fuckin’ cute.” 

Yeah, he’s not too good at conversing with strangers either, especially a cute one like you.

And now that you’re sitting right next to him, shoulders no longer heaving as he keeps driving down the vast highway, he’s not so sure what the next move should be. A couple of quick glances let him know that somewhere along the way, you had fallen asleep, head lolled against the window, your chest rising and falling with a silent rhythm. The sun is setting, the warm glow casts down on your figure—you look like an angel.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, of course—but deep down, he knows he’ll keep that image of you and engrave it into the back of his head.

And he knows just the place to take you to.

#angst #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod mwii #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost x you #apocalypse #zombie apocalypse #im having a brainrot yet again #they should kiss kiss fall in love #simon riley x you #ghost call of duty #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty

[moonstruckme]

I sent a request a while back before I knew about you closing your request. (Sorry about that.) But maybe apocalypse Remus and reader finally reuniting with the others? Or dealing with the full moon approach while separated from the pack and all the reader wants to do is help, but Remus doesn't want to hurt her? Or maybe they get attacked again, and they get away just fine, but the reader gets hurt in the process or something. Idk something angsty just sounds so good rn 😅

Thank you for requesting love, sorry for the wait!

cw: blood

apocalypse au

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’re off gathering more twigs to feed the fire when you hear a series of explosions. Your head snaps in that direction, time seeming to stop with your heart. In the next second you’re dropping the kindling, sprinting back for the campsite, because if someone’s found Remus, if they’ve gotten through his protections—

You only make it a few steps before you see he’s already racing toward you, barely glancing behind him to shoot a nonverbal spell at the three—no, four, five—bounty hunters chasing after him. You scramble for your wand to help, knocking a couple off his heels before Remus barrels into you. He apparates without hesitating, and a scream tears from your throat, pain searing through your side. 

You and Remus grip each other tightly, rolling to the ground. The place where you’ve landed is quiet, but you can hardly tell with the desperate ringing in your ears and the sound of your own panting breaths. Remus rolls off you, inadvertently putting pressure on the blazing pain in your side. You cry out and put your hands over the spot, shielding it from further harm.  

“Fuck.” He’s panting too, shoving his wand in the waistband of his jeans with shaking hands. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to warn you, I—are you hurt?” 

Your brain is all static, speech beyond you, but in a breath there are hands covering yours, pulling at the edge of your shirt. Your shirt, sticky with blood. You moan. 

“You have to let me see,” Remus is saying, fighting to get your hands away from the wound. “I can’t help if I can’t see it.” 

Your shirt sticks and clings to you as he peels it off, the cool air somehow making everything worse. Remus curses proficiently. His touch vanishes. It’s a relief, and also not. You want to go curl up somewhere by yourself until this hurt goes away, and also you don’t want him to leave you. 

He’s back a second later, taking your wrists in a gentle but firm grip to get them away from your side. You hadn’t realized you’d grabbed it again. 

“You’re okay,” he promises swiftly, and you must really trust him, because you almost believe him despite the leaves growing slick with blood beneath you. “You’re going to be fine. Sorry, this is going to sting.” 

You don’t quite process the words before fire sears your side. You choke on a sob, but the pain only spreads, moving inward like it’s eating you away to nothing. Remus shushes you, tiny, helpless placations rushing from between his lips. 

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Almost done now.” 

When the burning ebbs, you’re honestly not sure whether this new feeling is only the lesser pain you’d felt before whatever Remus had done to you. But a few ticks go by, and the static in your head fades. You can hear yourself breathing. The breeze rustling through trees. You touch your side tentatively, and it’s whole. 

Remus’ scarred hand skims it as though making sure of the same thing. You look at him, tears still clumped in your lashes, and he retracts his hand, glancing down to screw the cap back on the bottle. 

“What is that?” Your voice scrapes on its way out. You clear your throat embarrassedly. 

Remus looks over like he isn’t sure you’re talking to him. “This?” You nod. “Essence of dittany. There’s some powdered silver in it, but that doesn’t tamper with the healing.” 

You nod again, swallowing. Neither of you feel the need to discuss why he has the potion so readily available. Remus turns away from you, burying it back in his bag. You realize for the first time that he even has it, must have managed to grab it before the bounty hunters go too close. You’re both lucky he’s so quick on his feet.

“Thank you,” you say, sitting up, “and, uh, sorry for…making it so difficult.” 

Remus softens. He kneels beside you again, holding a different bottle in his lap as he draws a careful finger under your lashes, catching the tears hanging there. “I’m sorry for splinching you. I should have warned you we were going to apparate.” 

“You were under duress. I think you can be excused some hasty decision-making.” 

“You splinched away nearly half your middle,” he says, a bit of teasing in his voice. “I think you can be excused a bit of hysteria.” You can’t tear your gaze away from his amber eyes, and he doesn’t shy from it. “You came close to losing a few ribs. I don’t know what we would’ve done then.” 

“You would’ve fixed it,” you say certainly, and Remus drops his stare, a bashful smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he unscrews the bottle he’d pulled out of the pack. 

“Maybe,” he allows. “Here, have a few sips of this.” 

You sniff at it tentatively. 

“Don’t smell, just drink.” 

You do. Then you gag, coughing. “Ugh, what is it?” 

“Blood-Replenishing Potion. Have just a little bit more,” he instructs, watching while you do before taking the bottle back and twisting on the cap. “You really scared me, bleeding all over the place like that.” 

“Sorry.” 

He hums as he stores the bottle back in the bag, eyes going somewhere foggy and faraway. It may be the new familiarity of this particular look, but you know instantly what he’s thinking of: the other people he’s terrified for, who might not be faring so well without his help and ample medical supplies. 

“How do you think they’ve managed to find us twice in under a week?” he asks, quiet enough that you wonder if he’s even talking to you. 

“They didn’t.” You match his tone, soft and careful. “Those were bounty hunters, not death eaters.” 

Remus grunts. “Same thing, under this government.” 

“Those guys found us by chance,” you say with certainty you don’t feel. “James and Sirius have always had better luck than that. And they’re smart. If anyone stumbled upon them, they’d get away, too.” 

His throat bobs, but he nods. “You’re right. They’re perfectly competent on their own, I just…I don’t like the idea of them out there without us to help.” 

“Me neither,” you admit at a murmur. 

Remus only looks into the leaves, gaze still distant. You give him the time he needs to collect himself, surveying the area you’ve landed in. It’s not vastly different from the forest you’d been in before, but some of the trees look different and when you listen you can hear a few birdsongs that aren’t the ones you’ve lived among for the past few days. The sun is just starting to dip into the horizon. It lights everything in a soft, glowy orange. You’ll need to gather kindling again if you’re going to have a fire, but for now you just take a breath. The sunlight tangles in Remus’ hair, making his skin look buttery smooth and romanticizing his expression into one of contemplation rather than hauntedness. Your heart throbs, a warm sort of ache. You wonder if he can fix that, too.

“I know it’s not the same,” you say quietly, embarrassedly, “but at least for now, we have each other.” 

Remus smiles. It’s small and weary, but a smile nonetheless. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad for it.”

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