#ld writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rrrrinmaru · 2 months

Text

you can talk between my legs (raf x mc, nsfw)

wc: 3200 rating: E warning: hand job, teasing, orgasm denial

“I could��ve sworn–” he mumbles, long eyelashes fluttering shut as he nuzzles into the curve of your palm. His lips are parted, two soft crescents pressing against your skin. He exhales, a rough, pained sound—you lean forward, trying to catch his gaze.

His eyes don’t seem bloodshot. His pupils are dilated, but not severely enough that you suspect he’s been drugged. Then he takes in another long, straggling breath with the tip of his nose skimming up the sensitive inner length of your wrist, and you start wondering if perhaps he is high after all.

“Could’ve sworn I’ve smelled this before,” Rafayel murmurs to himself. It’s as if you’re nothing more than a lifeless doll with what appears to be a devastatingly enticing scent. He fits the jut of your wrist bone between his lips—you flush, wondering if he can taste the desperate quickening of your heart rate or if that’s just all in your head—and he practically sags into your palm.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Rafayel pays your words no mind. He closes his eyes, a delighted little sigh leaving his mouth. “You smell delicious,” he moans, a low, throaty sound that threatens to make your knees buckle.

That is—horribly unfair, you think to yourself, cheeks flushed all the way to high heaven. How can Rafayel stand there without a care in the world, making such sounds that should be enough to constitute public indecency. Isn’t he ashamed? Does he have no propriety?

You conveniently ignore how you’re not exactly putting up much resistance against this behaviour. It’s not your fault if Rafayel wants to act like a slut in his own house. If anything, you’re the victim here, so blatantly being used as a prop.

“Miss,” he groans, rubbing your palm against his cheek, as if he’s a cat that wants to be marked by your scent. “Can I—please, I need to—”

While he speaks, you reach out your other hand to cup his face. Whether you do this as a form of support or as another form of teasing (because you know damn well the bottle spilled on both your hands), that’s between you and God.

On his end, Rafayel cuts himself off before he finishes his sentence. He whines softly, reaching up to grab your wrist with his free hand. “You smell so fucking good,” he curses, and practically buries his face in your palms.

“We have places to be,” you say. Your mouth says one thing, but your fingers are cupping Rafayel’s cheeks, thumbs stroking over the smooth skin below his eyes as he mumbles nonsense into your hands. “It’s your party.”

Rafayel mutters something. The way his lips scratch against the sensitive surface of your palms is distracting; you drag your hand along his cheek and tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“What did you say?”

“I said—” Rafayel says in a low, rolling voice—he looks up, eyes half-lidded and eyelashes sweeping over the breadth of his cheekbones. He knows how he looks when he looks up at you like this. You know he knows, because his lips spread in that slow, satisfied smile that reeks of a cat getting the cream, and his eyes are like two crystals glittering in the low light.

For a moment, you stare a little too long. The way the light catches on his eyelashes, the way it dips between shades in his eyes—were his pupils always so dilated?

“I said, fuck the party,” Rafayel rasps. His eyes are trained intently on you like a hunter locking onto its prey; he groans, a rough, too-loud sound as he presses his lips to the base of your palm.

You definitely don’t hallucinate the sudden sensation of wetness swiping over your wrist.

“Rafayel!” You jerk back from shock, eyes widening at the slip of tongue darting out of his mouth for another taste. Before you can wrench your hands out of his grip, he’s moving far faster than you ever thought him capable—

One hand drops one of your wrists. The other pulls back, forcing you forward—you stumble, too unbalanced far too quickly, and that free hand comes to wrap around the small of your waist to yank you fully into his embrace, shoulder to hip all lined up with a delicious, dizzying pressure.

Like a fisherman reeling in a catch. Snapped up in a second. You didn’t even know there was a reel line to begin with, but now Rafayel is rocking his hips insistently against you and your legs spread, of course they do, and you find his thigh in between yours, pressing up into the growing wetness there.

“Please,” Rafayel murmurs, burying his face in your neck. It’s—you don’t have the words to describe the way your head is filling up with hot air, the way your cheeks are rapidly turning red as you try to squirm out of his grasp. He’s never—you didn’t know he was this strong.

You’re not really trying to get out of the position you’re currently in, but you’re putting up enough resistance that it would have sent a normal civilian to his feet. Rafayel is… holding his own. Holding you to him as he makes these little desperate sounds, teeth scraping against your neck as he grinds his length on your thigh.

“Please, what?” You whisper. You don’t know why you’re whispering. The two of you are the only occupants in this gigantic house of his, and it isn’t like anyone will overhear. It isn’t like anyone will see.

But your voice is as quiet as a whisper, a soft exhalation of air from your taut lungs.

Your free hand is clinging uselessly to the front of Rafayel’s dress shirt. It’s a nice shirt. You find yourself trying to focus on the way the material feels, the way it slips between your fingers as you scrabble for some kind of hold that won’t crumple the shirt up beyond belief; better to think about how the silk feels against your skin rather than the growing hardness rubbing insistently against you—

He’s so desperate, you can’t help but think to yourself. Rafayel huffs, fingers tightening around your waist to bring you back down to earth.

“Stop drifting away,” he whines. His back is a long, curved line, like a drawn bow. “Help me.”

You—it’s not like you don’t know what he’s asking for, but you think you might pass out from embarrassment before you actually get your hands on him. It’s not everyday you get a criminally attractive man begging for your hands on him. In fact, today is day one. It’s never happened before.

You know what to do, but only in theory. In practice, it’s so disarming to have Rafayel hunched over you, sucking bruises into your neck that you know you’ll have to cover up before heading into work tomorrow.

As if sensing your hesitation, Rafayel jerks his hips against your thigh—once, twice, sliding along the groove of your leg with such intent that it makes your core clench.

“Be patient,” you say instinctively, all too familiar with a demanding Rafayel.

“Can’t,” he replies. His soft fringe brushes against your neck as he dips his head lower, his tongue lapping against your clavicle. The wet muscle drags across your collarbones, a feather-light, teasing touch that makes you shiver.

The whole world narrows down to this one point, you think dazedly. Rafayel’s hands on you: one hand occupied with squeezing your waist—as if insistently reminding himself that you can’t run away—the other has fingers entangled with yours, and you swear you can feel his fluttering heartbeat through his skin.

His lips on your neck, wandering lower with every pass of his tongue. All of a sudden, you recall what you’re wearing. A little slip of a dress, a long pool of cerulean silk, and the most daring plunge cut you’ve ever tried.

Rafayel didn’t buy this dress for you. But when the two of you had gone out the other day—for very above ground purposes, such as escorting him to a new gallery showcase—you had passed by a boutique and you had seen his eyes linger on this dress on the mannequin.

It had only been for a moment, but he had his eyes on the dress and you had your eyes on him.

And when you showed up today, fingers drenched with that weird perfume, you saw the way Rafayel’s lips parted with shock, eyes running over your figure with such greed that it made you want to press your thighs together to stave off the heat that suddenly flared up.

Then he tilted his head to the side, scented the air, and here you are.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” Rafayel mumbles in a daze to himself. He doesn’t look up at you for a response—it’s as if that statement was just a noncommittal comment and not something meant for you to hear—and continues to trace a thin line down your chest with his tongue.

Your hand unconsciously follows the path he takes. As he inches lower to that sliver of space between your tits, your fingers trace a similar route down the front of his chest, pressing through the fabric to feel the hard planes of his muscles.

When your fingers catch on his belt, you hear the way his breath audibly hitches.

“Ask nicely,” you murmur. You feel like your entire body’s been soaking for too long in an onsen. Your head is boiling up and you feel—you feel possessed.

Instead of asking nicely, Rafayel laughs against your skin and reaches for the belt himself. Before he touches the leather, you close your fingers around his wrist in a tight grip.

“Not very nice to be restrained, is it?” You ask teasingly. “Ask nicely for what you want, Raf.”

“I’ve been nothing but nice this whole time,” Rafayel groans, but obediently lets you lead his palm back to cupping your waist. “I’ve been saying please. I’ve been nice.”

“One more time,” you coax, squeezing his palm.

Rafayel grumbles, eyes flicking up to peer at you. But despite the petulance hanging from his lips, his eyes are dark with fervor.

“Please,” he murmurs, the word breathed out against your skin, the space where the dress slips a little too far down and reveals too much of your cleavage. “I’ve been so good.”

A lot of things happen in quick succession. He lets his tongue dart out, dipping down between your tits and licking a long line up your chest. Your fingers catch on his buckle and flick it open. He leans in closer, clearly intent on leaving a bruise the shape of his mouth right above your heart, marking you for the next few days.

You grab the belt by the silver buckle and yank.

Rafayel’s breath snaps in two. He glances up, lips parted in surprise as the belt falls to the ground with a clatter. “Miss—”

“What?” You ask breathlessly, fingers already fiddling with the button of his slacks. “You asked nicely.”

“I—” Suddenly, it’s as if the roles are reversed. You’re the hunter in the dark, your shadow stretching out so far it’s like a gaping maw that swallows everything in the evening light. Rafayel is the prey floundering for driftwood in the wide open sea.

Right before you undo his zipper, you pause. The tips of your fingers linger against the hardness straining through the fabric. You can feel it—there’s a heft to it you can’t ignore. It’s a dizzying thing, feeling the physical weight of someone’s arousal for you.

It feels scalding through his slacks. You swallow, wondering if you’re parched or your mouth just craves something to suck on.

Rafayel slants his hips into your fingers. He grinds along the flat of your palm—a long, insistent movement—and his voice comes out as a groan when he speaks.

“Please,” he begs. His fingers spasm around your waist and your hand, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. All he knows how to do is to rock along your hand, feeling the bite of the metal through the fabric of his briefs—he must crave it, you think, and it’s that thought that stays in the forefront of your mind as you finally drag the zipper down.

“You’ve stained the front,” you say dazedly, touching the tip of your index finger to the wet spot.

Immediately, Rafayel’s hips snap forward, chasing your touch. He makes this sound—as if he’s been wounded—and you feel—

“Don’t just touch it,” he pants, forehead pressed against your chest. He’s still bent over, as if your touch was enough to reduce him to shaky knees and he needs your body to hold himself upright.

You think he’s really in no position to be giving you orders, but you want to see the way his eyelashes flutter and his eyes roll back into his head, so you skate your fingers along the throbbing length of it.

“Harder,” Rafayel gasps, hips rolling into your grip. “Hard—ngh, hold it tighter—”

You can’t help it. Your fingers curl around the length cutting a visible outline in his briefs, but your thumb finds its way back to that wet spot. It’s damp with precum and the muscle there feels softer. You gently dig your thumbnail into that spot, and Rafayel stutters on his next sentence.

“Fu—ck,” he groans out, his breaths coming out in hot pants against your tits. He’s so out of it, eyes closed with bliss written all over his face as he ruts into your hand.

But even though he’s not sucking marks into your skin, even though he’s not feeling you up or dipping fingers into your drenched underwear—

This is really doing it for you, you realize. You’re rocking slowly along Rafayel’s thigh, instinctively chasing the friction against your stiff clit as you rub the pad of your thumb against the head of his dripping cock through his briefs.

“Fuck,” Rafayel exhales lowly. “That’s—mm, fuck, that’s good—harder, Miss, harder—”

“Can you cum like this?” You ask, pupils blown as you watch the way your sentence sends him into a full body shudder. You can feel the stickiness through his briefs, the jump of his cock when you tighten your grip—

Rafayel makes a broken sound. “You can’t just ask that!”

The laugh escapes your mouth before you can reel it back in. “You can, can’t you?”

Fuck, you think to yourself, lips curving up. He’s so cute. He’s so weak like this, whining as he ruts his hips into your palm, chasing the pleasure your fingers can give him.

He doesn’t deign that with a reply. Instead, he digs his fingers into your waist, hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave bruises that you know you’ll stare at in the mirror for the next few days. He drags you closer, higher on his thigh, and your breath catches when this small movement presses your clit even tighter against his leg.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Rafayel murmurs. “You’re soaked.”

“You’re one to talk,” you reply, rubbing your thumb against the underside of his cockhead and relishing in the hitched groan you draw from his mouth. “Harder?”

“Mm…” Rafayel nods, exhaling roughly into your chest when you slow your pace, dragging your fingers against his cock. “Feels—‘m close, feels—nngh, fuck, fuck—”

“Go on.” You hold him a little tighter, feeling the muscle twitch in your grip. His fingers spasm against your waist, tightening and loosening in random bursts as if he’s just kneading at your hips, trying to find purchase while he shivers through the heat slipping through him. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Don’t s—ay it like that,” Rafayel protests, voice cracking in the middle.

You squeeze your thighs around Rafayel’s leg, riding out the heat that flares up in your core whenever he says something in that whiny, pathetic voice of his. The fire in your abdomen grows, like embers catching at drywood and spreading throughout your body.

“I want to see it,” you say, swiping your thumb over the dampest part of his briefs, pressing down into the drooling slit at the head of his cock. “I want to see you cum.”

Your words must be the catalyst. He shudders, shoulders trembling as his hips jerk forward once, twice—he bites down, right above your heart, and you let out a quiet gasp at the sting.

Beneath your palm, beneath your fingers, you can feel the fabric grow even wetter than it already is. His cock twitches in your grip, pulsing frantically as Rafayel pants weakly, hips rolling of their own accord to drag out his pleasure.

“Miss—!” he groans in between kisses to your chest, tongue laving over the bruise he’s sucked into your skin. “Fuck, so fucking good, nngh…”

He goes back to being non-verbal as you stroke him off, fingers pulling at his cock to coax out every last drop of cum. It’s stickier than you expected, but it makes the slide smoother and Rafayel lets out this breathless, choked noise with every downward stroke.

And then, because you’re feeling a little brave after you just jerked him off through his briefs, you skate your fingers up and pull at the rim, trying to reach below the fabric.

A hand snaps to your wrist before you can get your fingers under.

“If you touch me again, we are definitely not turning up for the party,” Rafayel mutters.

You hum, twisting your wrist in a playful attempt to escape his grip. You try to stretch your fingers out, the nail of your middle finger scraping against something hot, and Rafayel’s hold on you tightens so abruptly that you almost burst into laughter. “I thought you didn’t care about the party?”

He gives you a considering look, then rolls his shoulders in a careless shrug. “True. I have more important things on my plate.”

Rafayel pauses. He straightens, leveraging the height he has over you as he looms, and then pointedly drops his gaze to where you’re practically seated on his flexed thigh, skirt tossed to the side as you unconsciously rock your hips along the muscle there.

You flush crimson. Before you can try to slide off and adjust yourself to a more presentable appearance, Rafayel ducks down.

He’s close. So close that you can still see the flecks of pink in his dilated eyes, the redness in his cheeks from his climax. So close that when he speaks, you can feel his breath against your lips.

“I owe you an orgasm,” he murmurs. “Hands, mouth, or something else?”

You can’t help the way you clench your thighs. What other reaction are you supposed to have?

“… All?” You say tentatively, and Rafayel’s eyes light up.

“That’s the right answer,” he proclaims excitedly. “We’ll start with my mouth. I’ve been dying to get between your legs.”

Before you can reply to that shocking sentence, he sweeps you up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing at all.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace x reader #l&ds rafayel #rafayel #恋与深空 #祁煜 #러브앤딥스페이스 #恋と深空 #rin writes lds

883 notes · View notes

betweenbreaths · 3 days

Text

doctor's orders (WIP)

Fandom: Love and Deepspace

Characters: Zayne x Reader

Summary: Zayne is surprisingly obedient as a patient when it’s your turn to play doctor.

Rating: E (M for this snippet though)

A/N: Posting this WIP first because I think it'll take me a while to write the full thing. :")

++++++

He’s terribly late.

It’s almost midnight now, almost 12 hours past the time he was supposed to have you over at his place for lunch and a home movie date. He had already prepared everything perfectly, from the food, to the table setting, to the extra blankets on the couch (only because you liked to snuggle). And then you had arrived right on time, and everything was going perfectly.

That is, until his work phone rang and he received an alert that one of his patients had to undergo surgery immediately.

You hadn’t looked fazed when he filled you in on the situation; after all, it was hardly the first time he had been whisked away from a date for unexpected work emergencies. You had told him before that you didn’t mind; saving lives came first and you’d have done the same if you were notified of wanderers in the area.

So he’d left promptly, promising to be back as soon as he could.

And now, twelve hours later, he has finally returned to the front door of his apartment, with a bouquet of flowers he’d picked up along the way as an apology. Zayne had texted you earlier to ask if you had already left, and you’d said that you would stay and wait for him, and that there was no hurry.

He sees your shoes still neatly placed outside, and yet another pang of guilt hits him. He just hopes you’re not too upset. He’ll have to make it up to you somehow.

As Zayne opens the door and steps in, he calls your name.

Silence. No response.

That… must be a bad sign. Either that, or you fell asleep somewhere. Certainly not in the living room, because there’s no trace of you other than the crumpled blankets and the remote control tossed to the corner of the couch.

He shrugs off his coat, leaving it on one of the chairs by the dining table and peers around, wondering where you’d gone. Instinctively he heads straight towards his bedroom — you might be taking a nap there.

He knocks lightly on the closed door before opening it carefully, slowly, in case he wakes you. Then he hears you call his name. The tone in your voice isn’t one of anger or disappointment.

In fact, it’s the opposite. You sound… mischievous, playful. Even a little naughty.

Almost like you’d planned something completely unexpected for him, and you’d been waiting for him to come in, like a predator waiting for prey to fall into its trap.

And when he steps in, Zayne all but forgets to breathe.

++++++

Leaving you alone in his apartment for twelve hours had left you with plenty of time to devise a surprise for your boyfriend. Your spark of inspiration came when you decided you’d do the poor man a favour and sort out his laundry for him since he can’t even afford the time to eat the lunch he’d so painstakingly prepared for that afternoon.

And when you came across the freshly washed spare doctor’s coat in the pile of clean clothes, you were immediately drawn to it like a moth to a flame. You ran your fingers over the thick, wrinkled fabric, a smile playing on your lips when you think about how far he’s come in his career.

And when you put it on, the scent of detergent and warmth enveloping you, an idea so brilliant, so devious, popped into your head.

After all, you’d already come over to his home already prepared with a new set of black lacy lingerie for him to tear off of you, and this coat would go perfectly with it.

The look on Zayne’s face when he steps into his bedroom and his eyes fall on you is absolutely delightful. You see a myriad of emotions flicker in his eyes: confusion, surprise, bewilderment…

And then his gaze becomes hungry. Sinful. Heat pools in your centre as his gaze falls on your body, examining every single inch of you. You can already tell from his dilated pupils that in his mind, he’s ravaging you, kissing you senseless and tasting every drop of you, and god you can already anticipate how rough he’s going to be with you when you let him have his way.

But first, you’re going to have some fun with this.

Zayne approaches the bed, each footstep almost echoing in your ears and mirroring your accelerating heartbeat and you prop yourself up on your elbows, clicking your tongue and shaking your head at the man.

“You’re late for your appointment, Zayne. I’m almost off my shift now.”

“I apologise. I was held up at work because of an emergency.”

“I wish you would prioritise your health the way you do with your work.”

Your lips curl into a knowing smile, and so does his, although his smile looks a little more defeated.

“Using my words against me now?”

“Maybe. But I don’t have time for small talk. I’m supposed to have a date with my boyfriend and he’s waiting for me at home, so let’s make this quick.”

Zayne cocks an eyebrow but says nothing as you sit up and tap the empty spot next to you on the bed.

“Lie down. We need to do a routine examination.”

Surprisingly, Zayne does as he’s told without protest. You feel the bed dip with his weight when he sits down, and you swallow nervously when he stares at you up close, eyes darting down towards your lips and raking down your figure. His gaze is smouldering and you feel your cheeks warm as the corner of his lips turn up.

“Like what you see?” you can’t resist the urge to ask.

“It would be more appropriate to ask your boyfriend that, Doctor.”

Right, right.

You clear your throat, trying to get back into the roleplay. With Zayne now lying comfortably on the bed, you scooch over, placing your hand over his chest.

“Checking for my pulse? Where’s your stethoscope?”

You roll your eyes at him. “I don’t need one to know that your heart is racing right now. Do you feel uncomfortable? Any chest pains?”

“Yes, it does hurt a little.”

“Where?” You experimentally press on his left pec. “Here?” You shift your hand downward slightly. “Or here?”

“No.” Zayne grabs your wrist then, and without warning, pulls you down with a hard tug. You lose your balance, falling straight towards him and you barely manage to stop yourself from giving him a headbutt when your left hand plants itself into the mattress right by his face.

In this position, you’re now mere inches away from his lips, and his piercing gaze doesn’t leave your eyes as he re-positions your right hand on his chest.

“Here.” You feel his strong heartbeat beneath your fingers, and the warmth of his breath fanning across your face. Just a little closer and you’ll be able to taste his lips and lose yourself in his passionate, fiery kisses.

He’s clearly thinking the same thing as you, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sucks in a sharp breath when your tongue wets your lips — a habit of yours when you’re nervous. And then you feel his free hand come up to rest on the nape of your neck to pull you in, closer and closer to him.

It’d be so tempting to just give up now, to let him have his way with you and to get that quality time and intimacy you’ve been craving all day now. In fact, you’ve been waiting a whole week for this, because lately Zayne has been too busy and today was the only day you could squeeze in a precious date with him.

But that’s also the reason why you want to enjoy this to the fullest. After all, it’s not often that Zayne is so indulgent with you in bed.

At the last second, you regain your senses and place your right hand over his mouth, putting an unceremonious halt to his attempt to kiss you. His lips graze the surface of your palm and that’s enough to make goosebumps rise on your arms.

“If your chest hurts, let’s take a closer look, shall we? I’ll need you to take your shirt off.”

#love and deepspace #zayne #lnds #lds #lnds zayne #zayne x reader #my writing #love and deepspace zayne

117 notes · View notes

onyourowndaisymae · 6 months

Note

trick or treat! can i get a treat with mephistopheles from obey me? 🍬

"this is an... odd tradition you have in the human realm," mephistopheles murmurs stiffly, snapping another photo with the professional camera in his hands.

"why? the devildom has haunted houses."

"in the devildom, haunted houses aren't so... juvenile."

click! another photo, this time focused on the ambient lighting outside the entrance of the spooky attraction you'd brought him to. he lowers the camera from his eye and looks around once more.

"well, at least give it a try first before you write it all off. c'mon."

fair enough. mephisto follows you into the haunted house, lingering a little closer than he usually would. why? it's a question he ponders himself as the two of you stroll side by side through unimpressive decorations and flashing lights inside this pseudo-maze.

you're human. utterly, completely insignificant. in the grand scheme of it all, you'll be six feet under within a century. if he blinks too long, you'll be a withered like a rotten apple on the ground in autumn, waiting to become one with the dirt from which you rose.

and yet-- mephisto moves a little closer.

a scare actor pops out from around the corner. you jump in surprise, shrieking and clutching onto his sleeve as you're startled. he's startled, too-- not by the actor (he saw that jumpscare coming a mile away), but by your decision to cling on to him in a moment of fear and irrationality. suddenly this boring attraction feels a little warmer than it did before.

"is that all it takes to scare you, human?" mephisto asks smugly. "i should have realized a lowly creature like yourself could be scared so easily."

despite his harsh words, the usual bite of a bitter tone was absent, replaced by something almost... fond? he was surprised to hear it himself.

maybe you would be gone in the blink of an eye-- humans, after all, are very fragile. but mephisto is starting to see something in you, something deeper than the surface that he initially brushed off. is this why diavolo adores you so?

"come," he beckons. his gloved hand finds your bare wrist and tugs you close, coaxing you against his side as you continue to walk through the haunted house. "let's keep going."

#i want to h*ld his h*nd #sorry if this is ooc i still haven't met him in og yet #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me nightbringer #obey me nb #obey me mephisto #obey me mephistopheles #obey me mephisto x reader #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me drabbles #obey me fluff #daisy's trick or treat event 2023 #daisy's halloween event 2023 #daisy's seasonal writing events

169 notes · View notes

seawardboundsammy · 3 months

Text

for the first time in forever, i've written a multichapter fic! its an outsider's POV on Anathema and Sidestep, and the city of Los Diablos as a whole. pre-written with 5 chapters, updating every 4 days. link here!

#very excited about this fic!#if you liked my in world ranger memes this is very much in line with that #but less shippy and a bit more serious #sammy speaks #fallen hero #fhr #fhr sidestep #fhr anathema #fhr: ld citizens #sammy writes

72 notes · View notes

lesbiansandco · 4 months

Text

bury me in childhood joy

they say a little girl died in that primary room,

arms folded tightly,

head bowed,

fidgeting silently.

her long natural hair, a testament to her mother's devotion:

brushing out painful knots

shaping tight braids

shoving sharp bobby pins in to keep it all together.

the itchiest dress you could imagine

but it was oh so beautiful

the scratchy fabric hurt more

as dresses increased in modesty-

modest dresses equaled more fabric

to cover up girls' vulnerable bodies.

that girl had the longest dress

she was modest. she felt like a monster.

"the spirit,"

they said,

"is a still small voice."

and for the first time, the girl recognized a lie.

the spirit was not still. was not small.

it was loud, roaring waves of emotion

that overcame her

and taught her that emotions have depth and range

she was happy. she was sad. she was crying, she was glad.

that child died before she learned the word "impulsive."

the promptings of the spirit were many. they were unpredictable.

the child didn't understand.

why would her leaders lie?

the lesson was forgettable. the message, not so much.

"you must be prepared to die for the church"

"you would rather die than deny your faith,

right?"

the child didn't comprehend martyrdom

but in that moment, she knew she would die a martyr.

and she did.

the child used to love wearing her ctr ring

"choose the right"

so she did.

she chose the right path

her ring rests on that primary chair

blackened with a sharpie and bent out of shape

#mine #writing #poetry #exmo #ex lds #exmormon #ex mormon #spilled ink #found my old ctr ring today #guess what I did to it #lgbtq #<- this was also meant to be a metaphor about growing up afab in the church #idk how well it came through #maybe I'll write another poem sometime #anyway enjoy! it's pretty raw but i like it that way #death imagery tw

72 notes · View notes

trekkie-polls · 2 months

Text

Don’t vote your favorite - this is about who you trust to save your life.

No room for “other in tags” on this one, I already had to leave off many prime choices!

33 notes · View notes

laundrybiscuits · 10 months

Text

Eddie's mama always used to say that the night sky over Orion was the most beautiful sight in the Alpha Quadrant. She'd tuck him into her side at bedtime and tell him about the way the dim red lamps clustered in the markets never stopped you being able to see the bright stars and the swirling lights of the nearby nebula, so it was just a shimmering sea of red below and a shimmering sea of blue-purple-gold above, light and dark all mixed up together so you couldn’t tell the difference.

Eddie's never laid eyes on it himself, but he always liked hearing her talk about it. He asked Wayne about it once or twice, when he was younger, but Wayne grew up like Eddie's old man: roaming around systems farther and farther from the Orion sector, following whatever work he could get. Eddie's old man was a sight less choosy about which jobs he'd take than Wayne was, which is why Eddie’s been living with Wayne for about as long as he can remember.

Starfleet offered to help Eddie relocate, after everything went down. They even offered to make sure he got to Orion okay, if he'd wanted it, to reconnect with his heritage or whatever.

He hadn't wanted it. But he also hadn't really wanted to stay where he’d been planetside, where his official job was helping Wayne out with the Starfleet Academy’s satellite campus canteen, and his unofficial job was procuring various not-Starfleet-approved odds and ends for cadets looking for something to help them weather the pressures of the Academy.

Commander Hopper, newly returned from the dead, had made it pretty damn clear that Eddie's sideline was no longer going to be an option, anyway.

So he'd talked to Wayne, and he'd talked to Commander Hopper, and he'd even talked a little to Nancy Wheeler because she's smart as hell—everyone knows she's one of the top candidates for joining, and a symbiont is going to snatch her up any day now.

After all that talking, he still doesn’t really know what to do, so Hopper sighs and tells him he doesn’t have to decide right away.

“I just,” he says later, to Robin. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, but it’s not like I got any big plans somewhere else, either. Plus, everyone on the damn station still looks at me like I’m a murderer. Or at least Orion filth.”

Robin sort of gets it, a little bit, but she’s Starfleet. It’s different in uniform, even for half-Andorians who once crashed a runabout into the side of the base.

“You could always apply to the Academy,” she says, but she’s got a grimace like she already knows that’s never gonna happen. Even if they’d take him, he’d have no chance of making it through the course, not when he’d squeaked through the standard Federation educational system by the skin of his teeth. He can’t really picture himself in the uniform anyway. Not his style at all.

“Think those feral bat creatures gobbled up whatever mutant gland makes people want to join Starfleet,” he just says, pulling up his shirt and prodding at his wounds to make her laugh.

Of course that’s when Steve Harrington walks in, when Eddie’s got his shirt hiked up around his armpits and all his shiny new scars are on full display.

The scars are still a lurid emerald going brownish-purple around the edges. When he’d first woken up in the medbay, he’d been told that they’d probably fade with time, but might never go away despite all the intensive dermal regeneration treatments he’s still going in for every week. He doesn’t mind so much, honestly; he’s never been too hung up on his looks. People who want to fuck an exotic, dangerous Orion aren’t exactly going to be put off by scars, so who knows? This might actually help him out a little in the dive bars he tends to haunt when he gets skin-hungry enough.

But it’s definitely not doing him any favors now, as Steve pauses in the doorway, looking kind of confused. Eddie quickly yanks his shirt back down, hiding a wince. Steve’s already seen him at his worst, Steve’s not a fucking option for a million reasons, so it’s not like it matters, but—anyway.

“Junior Lieutenant Harrington,” he says. “Heard about the promotion. Congrats.”

“Thanks,” says Steve. “I think it’s like, you get three or four concussions saving the station, and the system just puts the promotion through automatically.”

“I can’t wait to see what it takes for you to make Lieutenant, non-junior edition,” says Robin. “Do you think you’ll need to be in an actual coma?”

“Probably, at this rate,” Steve says, wandering over and leaning into her side companionably. “Don’t think anything’s really going to change aside from the pay, though.”

“Nah, just wait.” Eddie rocks back on his heels, grinning at Steve. “You’ll be battling evil wormhole monsters on perilous away missions and teaching alien babes how to love before you know it. The daring adventures of Spaceman Steve! Eat your heart out, James T. Kirk.”

“Henderson still thinks you’re gonna join up too,” says Steve.

“What, Starfleet? Where the hell’d he get that idea?”

“Ugh, we were just talking about that,” groans Robin. “Eddie’s still being stubborn about it.”

Eddie crosses his arms. “Wheeler’s on my side.”

“No shit, Eddie. You’re his…game lord, or whatever.”

“What—no, dumbass, like I’d ever ask Cadet Wheeler for advice. Nancy goddamn Wheeler agrees I’d make a shit Starfleet officer, so there. Besides,” Eddie says, shifting a little uncomfortably. “I dunno if I could handle not living planetside. I know you guys have missions and stuff, but it’s not the same, is it? You live on a floating hunk of metal, like, ninety-nine percent of your life. Don’t know if that’s for me.”

“Didn’t figure you for the kind of guy who wanted to put down roots,” says Steve.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It’s not about roots. Don’t you ever feel weird about not living somewhere…you know, real? Everything around you is made exactly for you.”

“And that’s…bad?” says Steve. His brow’s furrowed like he’s actually asking.

“Not if you don’t think it is.” Eddie shrugs. “I just don’t think it works for me.”

“Okay, yeah, we get it,” says Robin. “You’re off to the next adventure, whatever that ends up being. Better cash in your chips soon, though; Hopper’s not gonna have that recently-reanimated pull forever.”

Steve frowns thoughtfully. “What about running, like, a transport ship or whatever? Is that weird with the, uh, pirate thing?”

“Little bit,” says Eddie. “But that’s…not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Actually, the more he thinks about it, the better it sounds. Some shiny little skiff, just big enough for him and some cargo, zipping around from planet to satellite to base, hanging out in random ports. It’ll be a little rough to go solo, and jobs might be a little scarcer than they’d be for a human or something, but then again, he’s used to that.

No, it’s not the worst idea he’s ever heard.

#STxST AU #steddie #okay I've tried a few different angles on this one but I think this might be the one that sticks. hopefully. who knows.#I just really want to write Eddie as basically Orion-diaspora!Kasidy Yates #(I've mostly just watched DS9 + DIS + LD + TOS with a smattering of TNG/VOY)#(and I saw the TOS movies many years ago but only the first reboot movie)#(so...sorry if I screw any universe details up! memory-alpha can only go so far!)#fic: hazy cosmic jive

105 notes · View notes

alliluyevas · 4 months

Text

HGDDGGSFGDSGHDFFFF

#yeah I recently made a post making fun of LDS prophets’ shitty facial hair bc I’m a devout Mormon. this is the only possible explanation #my cultural Mormonism and lack of intellectual depth is also why I think *checks notes* you can write compelling literature about romantic #conflict. I need to delete that post the amount of takes on there that are like #now who the fuck do you think you’re arguing w bc it certainly isn’t me

33 notes · View notes

acourtofladydeath · 27 days

Text

WIP Wednesday!

For this WIP Wednesday I'm posting a little snippet of my Poly+ ACOTAR Week Day 2 fic for the comfort prompt titled "Hold Me Close, Hold Me Tender".

This fic works off my HC that Nesta has endometriosis and her cycles and symptoms only worsened once she became fae. But thankfully as her body and emotions riot against her, her mates Cassian and Azriel are there to take care of her.

You can read your snack below the cut:

When Nesta rolled out of bed that morning her body felt sluggish, tired even after a full night's sleep. But warriors, especially Valkyrie’s, didn’t let anything keep them from training. She held in her groan as she sat up, trying not to wake Azriel. The male could sleep until the second before training started and still make it on time and be one of the most alert people there. Cassian had awoken and left the bed almost an hour ago, preferring to have extra time for his hair and breakfast routine. Nesta fell somewhere in the middle, allowing herself only the exact amount of time it took her to pull on her leathers, braid her hair, grab a quick snack from the house, and make it to the training ring. Each step she took felt heavier than the last, and her arms ached from what was typically the easy task of taming her hair. If that wasn’t a sign that something about this day would be different, the House providing Nesta with a pan au chocolat instead of her regular oats with berries definitely was. Groaning at the realization of what the House was trying to tell her, Nesta decided that she would pretend like it wasn’t happening and accept the House’s gift as a token of friendship and not the warning it was. This was her first mistake. The second mistake was heading up to train with the Valkyries and her mates.

Stay tuned for the full fic on 4/8 for @polyacotarweek!

#nessriel #Nesta archeron #cassian #azriel #acotar #acotar fanfic #poly!acotar #poly+acotarweek2024 #LD writes #LD wip wednesday #wip wednesday #hurt/comfort #period fic #cycle fic #acowar #acosf #nesta x cassian x azriel #nesta x azriel x cassian #azriel shadowsinger

29 notes · View notes

ldwritesstuff · 14 days

Text

Good afternoon everyone, I was on time this time.

#qsmp philza #technoblade #tommyinnit #qsmp #fanfiction #ld writes

7 notes · View notes

skynapple · 2 months

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 恋与深空 | Love and Deepspace (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jeremiah/Main Character (Love and Deepspace), Jeremiah/Reader (Love and Deepspace), Shěn Xīnghuí | Xavier/Main Character Characters: Qiu Noah | Jeremiah (Love and Deepspace), Main Character (Love and Deepspace), Shěn Xīnghuí | Xavier, Xavier (Love and Deepspace) Additional Tags: Philos - Freeform, Xavier is not endgame, Jeremiah is underrated, Fluff, Comfort, flower shop au, Friends to Lovers, this is how they fall in love Summary:

After 214 years, Jeremiah is finally reunited with his old friend. He doesn't expect it to fall for her. Tries not to, for sake of his friendship with Xavier. Wild roses will bloom where they're planted regardless.

Will be multi-chapter! :)

#jeremiah x mc #love and deepspace jeremiah #love and deepspace #lnds jeremiah #read on a03 #madi writes #lnds #l&ds #lds #xavier #jeremiah

14 notes · View notes

betweenbreaths · 2 days

Text

95. Quiet, baby, the others will hear.

Fandom: Love and Deepspace

Characters: Rafayel x Reader

Rating: E / 18+

A/N: Working off this list of r18 prompts for practice; am open to requests for this fandom as well. ;)

++++++

Sometimes, you think, Rafayel is an incorrigible, shameless and irredeemable asshole of the highest order.

And then there are days when you realise that he's so, so much worse than that.

You're at his latest art exhibition, and guests are bustling about. Their murmurs are loud enough that you can hear various buzzwords that the more pretentious visitors tend to use when they want to sound smart and knowledgeable about Rafayel's art. There are also quiet gasps by people enthralled by the ethereal paintings in display.

And, in your case, there are muffled moans spilling through the crevices of your fingers from where you're hidden behind a curtain in a corner of the musuem. Beneath you is a certain fame artist renowned and admired by everyone in the hall, although in your case, he's just a brat who's intent on making life absolute hell for you.

"Quiet, baby, the others will hear."

He briefly pauses to say that infuriating statement, as if he isn't the very reason you're in this state.

You're starting to regret even coming here now; you had arrived early with a bouquet of tulips to congratulate Rafayel, only to be greeted by a distraught Thomas who couldn't find the artist anywhere. He wasn't responding to texts or calls, including yours. Worried something might have happened to him, you immediately set off in search for him. You had then gone past an empty, unused exhibit in the corner of the museum, on your way towards the exit, before you found yourself being unceremoniously yanked back by an unknown force and crashing straight into the familiar arms of a young man.

And now, here you are, struggling to stay quiet while he ravages you, tongue lapping at your drenched pussy like a parched cat.

"Thomas is looking everywhere for you," you hiss, before throwing your head back against the wall when he sucks particularly hard on your clit.

"Don't care," he says, pausing to flash a mischievous grin your way. Still, it's no respite; he continues to pump his two fingers in and out of your slick center, while his thumb periodically flicks over your sensitive nub.

"He's the reason I didn't get to see you for two weeks. And you said you'd give me any reward I asked for if I finished my paintings in time."

"Yes, but not like this! We— ohh yes... w-we can do this later!"

"You say that, but you're clenching hard around my fingers." His lips quirk up at the corners once more, and he leans in closer to your pussy, hot breath fanning over the exposed, sensitive skin. "I didn't do much and you're already so wet for me. Looks like I'm not the only one who missed this, hmm?"

"Rafayel... Ha-ah!" He dives back in, lips hungrily devouring all that you have to offer, sending spark after spark of pleasure running like electricity through your skin. You're close; so close. He knows exactly what he's doing to your body; scissoring his fingers and thrusting them deep into the spot that you love, all while he traces circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue. You start to lose yourself to the intense pleasure that he's giving you, sinking down and hips thrusting to meet the rhythmic dance of his tongue and lips.

At that moment, the sudden sound of distant applause snaps you back to reality and your eyes burst open, hand flying to cover your mouth.

"Rafayel, p-please..."

Your near inaudible protests fall on deaf ears. If anything, Rafayel starts sucking harder, fingers thrusting harder and faster into you now. You can feel the familiar buzz of an orgasm prickling on your skin, and your body begins to tremble as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge with each passing second. Your muffled moans begin to crescendo in time with your building pleasure, fingers finding purchase in his soft, wavy hair. Perhaps it's for support, or maybe it's to pull him closer, to fuck yourself on his face and to satisfy both his and your thirst after two long weeks of pining for and missing each other.

"Come for me," he murmurs against your clit, moaning and rolling the bright pink nub between his teeth and tongue like it's the sweetest candy that he's ever tasted.

It doesn't take much more for you to find your release. You come apart, back arching of the wall with your head thrown back while your lips part in a silent scream of his name.

Even then, Rafayel, being the ruthless man he is, doesn't let you go. He continues to suck and lap at you, seeking every last drop of your release from your body. He drinks it all up greedily and when you're finally settled down from your orgasmic high, he releases you, a string of your cum connecting his lips to your kiss-swollen cunt.

"Rafayel..." you breathe out, and when your eyes meet, you just know that he's not anywhere near finished with you yet.

He stands, lanky figure towering over you, and in the next moment, you find yourself being spun around to face the wall. Your hands plant themselves on the cool, hard surface in front of you to reflexively stop yourself from falling face-first into it, and they are promptly covered by his larger ones.

And then you hear his voice, low and silky by your ear. The fiery heat in his breath against your skin makes you shiver in anticipation once more.

"I know it's going to be difficult, but let's try to stay quiet for a while more, okay?"

#love and deepspace #lnds #lds #lnds rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #my writing

29 notes · View notes