HERE'S.... FYNOR!

it literally wraps around earth

we need eve and alien!reader smut so baddd ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

CW. NSFW, yandere!reader, wlw, aggressive oral, overstimulation, choking.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft hum of ambient light filtering through the clouds outside the window. You sat perched on the bed like a queen, long limbs sprawled in lazy confidence, watching Eve pace the room with that signature scowl and arms crossed like she was trying to hold herself together.

She was frustrated. Again.

“You don’t listen to anyone,” Eve snapped, stopping mid-step, pink eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t understand boundaries. You—!”

You tilted your head slowly, like you always did when she got like this. Curious. Patient. Just a little amused.

“You angry?” you asked, voice smooth and low, like honey poured over a blade. “You want me... far?”

Eve froze, eyes narrowing, face flushing. “Don’t twist this! I’m serious!”

You rose to your feet in one fluid motion, the fabric of your loose shirt falling off one shoulder. Eve's breath caught. You closed the space between you slowly, hips swaying in that inhuman, seductive grace that made everything feel like a hunt.

“Eve...” you purred, circling her. “Why you always red when I close?”

“I’m not red!” she protested, but her voice cracked halfway through. “I’m just—!”

You slipped behind her, arms curling gently around her waist, pulling her back into your chest. Your lips brushed the shell of her ear as you whispered, “Liar.”

Eve shivered.

You moved one hand up to rest over her heart, the other trailing down her waist. Her breathing hitched.

“You say no,” you whispered, “but body says yes.”

“I—” Her voice was breathless now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You want I stop?” you murmured, voice all velvet and smoke.

Silence.

Then a weak, “No.”

A smirk spread across your lips. You turned her around and kissed her—slow at first, tasting her hesitation, then deeper, hungrier, tongue pushing past her lips with a kind of wild, invasive passion. She whimpered into your mouth, knees nearly giving out as you held her steady. You pulled back just enough to whisper:

“You soft. Sweet. I don’t want stop touching you, Eve.”

Her hands fisted in your shirt.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, eyes glazed, lips parted.

“You mine?”

She didn’t answer at first.

Then she mumbled, “Yeah... I’m yours, alien freak.”

You grinned like a predator, kissed her cheek, and curled protectively around her.

Eve’s voice was long gone — shredded hours ago — leaving only those raw, cracked little sobs that couldn’t even form words anymore.

You were still perched on her face like some starved beast, hips grinding in frantic, wet circles, that inhuman snarl tearing from your throat every time she so much as twitched her swollen lips against your cunt.

"More," you growled, fangs bared, the muscles in your thighs trembling as you shoved her deeper, suffocating against the plush mound of your pussy. Your claws left crescent-shaped dents in the headboard as you forced yourself down harder — riding her face with violent, animalistic need. "Guh— deeper. Lick."

Eve’s hands clawed weakly at your thighs, her face a mess of slick and spit, red hair matted to her flushed, tear-streaked cheeks. She was trying to push, trying to get air — but you didn’t care. Your cunt clenched too tight around her tongue, throbbing as another gush spilled, messy and hot, all over her nose and chin.

Her eyes rolled, glazed and fluttering, lashes soaked. Her body jolted once under you, chest arching like she was going to pass out.

And fuck — that just made you grind down harder.

"Mine," you snarled, voice guttural now, pupils blown wide like some feral thing. Your hips slapped down with a brutal smack, smearing more of your slick against her face as you rode her mouth like a rutting animal. "I said— mine, Eve."

Your claws grabbed fistfuls of her hair, yanking her face tighter against your dripping core. Her nose bumped against your swollen clit just right, and your back arched with a sharp, broken cry — vision blurring at the edges as you squirted again, flooding her mouth.

Eve’s body convulsed. Hands went slack.

"Ohhh," you hissed, body trembling. "You're sleep now? Hahh— pretty Eve... so pathetic now…"

But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Your hips were moving on their own now, chasing that raw, desperate friction as your swollen folds ground against her mouth, her chin, her slack tongue. Each roll made filthy, wet squelches fill the room, slick pouring down her throat while she lay helpless, body twitching under you.

"Your place is right here." Your voice cracked into a dark, shuddering moan, drool dripping from your open mouth as you fucked her face like a woman possessed. "You're mine. No running away now."

Your hips stuttered. Vision went white.

And with one last violent slam of your pussy against her face, you came again — harder than before, screaming as your slick gushed out in thick spurts, soaking her completely.

The bed creaked. Your claws tore holes in the sheets.

And as you finally slumped forward, panting over her limp form, you growled softly into her ear — voice hoarse but smug:

"...Told you. You stay red when I'm close."

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

superbat might not be everyone's cup of tea but you have to admit "person who wears glasses as their secret identity but doesn't need them" and "person who avoids wearing glasses until they absolutely have to" is a hilarious dynamic for a relationship.

Gabriel Landeskog #92 of the Colorado Avalanche celebrates after scoring a goal in the second period of Game Four of the First Round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs against the Dallas Stars at Ball Arena on April 26, 2025 in Denver, Colorado. (📷 by Ashley Potts)

WHY THE FUCK WOULDNT THEY GIVE US WEED INDUCED LESBIAN SEX. ON 4/20.

today’s lectionary texts—acts 5:27–32, psalm 118:14–29, revelation 1:9–11a, 12–13, 17–19, and john 20:19–31—are so densely interwoven it’s practically rabbinic. it’s the second sunday of easter, which historically functioned as a liturgical echo chamber for the resurrection. but today’s selections aren’t just liturgical filler—they’re deliberate theological architecture. acts 5:27–32 put you into a post pentecost context where peter and the apostles, fresh off their spirit induced empowerment, confront the sanhedrin. the line “we must obey god rather than men” (δεῖ ἀνθρώποις πειθαρχεῖν μᾶλλον ἢ τῷ θεῷ) is almost a second century anachronism. it anticipates martyrdom theology, rooted in texts like daniel 3 and 6, but also anticipates justin martyr and tertullian’s apologetics. it reframes civic disobedience as divine allegiance.

psalm 118 functions as a hinge text. it's the last of the hallel psalms (113–118), used during passover, which already overlays a liberation motif onto resurrection. “the stone the builders rejected” (v. 22) gets picked up in matt 21:42, mark 12:10, luke 20:17, and here again as a kind of post easter hermeneutical key. the rejected messiah becomes the cornerstone of a new ekklesia. it's also worth noting how this psalm was used in second temple processionals. what begins as royal liturgy becomes political protest. revelation 1:9–19 layers on the apocalyptic. john of patmos positions himself in exile “because of the word of god and the testimony of jesus”—a deliberate mirroring of the acts narrative. christ appears “like a son of man” (ὅμοιον υἱὸν ἀνθρώπου), drawing straight from daniel 7, but recoded with roman imperial aesthetics: golden sash, bronze feet, sword mouth. it’s not just christological—it’s anti imperial polemic. domitian’s empire is the beast; the risen christ is pantokrator. then john 20:19–31. locked room. fear. sudden appearance. peace (εἰρήνη ὑμῖν), said twice. jesus breathes on them—enephýsen—an echo of gen 2:7 and ezek 37. this is a new creation moment, a new adam breathing life into a new humanity. and thomas, often unfairly dubbed “doubting,” functions more like a johannine stand-in for the reader. he gets to touch the wound (typos), an embodied epistemology. and yet, the final beatitude—“blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed”—extends the narrative beyond history into faith. the whole text folds time like a chiasm. so yeah. today is about post resurrection defiance, counter temple theologies, radical reinterpretations of jewish liturgy, imperial subversion via apocalyptic aesthetics, and an invitation to epistemic humility. it’s theology as resistance literature.

this is their original dialogue from the script trust

james seeing remus start to transform: “uh oh. going beast mode.”

remus, actively in agony: “i am literally begging you to stop”

scarily sleep deprived and the concept of james potter unironically using the phrase ‘beast mode’ has reduced me to tears

NSFW CONTENT BELOW

you hear the soft whir of the vibranium arm before you see him. "kitchen’s closed,” bucky says behind you, voice quiet but firm.

you turn, caught halfway through raiding the fridge. “didn’t think you’d still be here.” he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. that arm glints under the low light, metal fingers tapping lightly against his bicep. "didn’t feel like sleeping.”

you nod slowly. “yeah… same.” his eyes hold yours for a little too long. there’s something unreadable in them, like he’s working something out. then he pushes off the wall, steps closer.

“you always make this much noise sneaking around?” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to the open fridge, “or just when I’m here to catch you?”

you close the fridge door slowly, the soft thunk of it echoing louder than it should. bucky’s still watching you, that unreadable expression etched into his face like it’s been there for years. "i wasn’t sneaking,” you say, trying for nonchalant. “i was hungry.”

“mm.” he doesn’t sound convinced. “middle of the night kind of hungry?”

you shrug. “the insomnia kind.”

recognition flickers across his face at that. understanding. he steps closer, not quite invading your space, but close enough that the air shifts. that vibranium arm brushes the counter as he leans just slightly. “you’re not the only one.”

for a second, silence stretches out between you, thick, a little charged. you notice the way his jaw ticks, like he’s holding something back. maybe a thought. maybe something else. you nod toward the cabinets behind him. “you guarding the tea now, or am i allowed to pass?” he doesn’t move. just looks at you for a second like he’s trying to read something in your face.

“you always come down here when you can’t sleep?”

“only when I’m trying to avoid people.”

his mouth twitches, more a shift than a smile. “guess i’m not people now?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t say that.”

his eyes flick away, then back. “i can move.”

“you could,” you say, stepping closer. he doesn’t back off. the air between you tightens. “but you’re not going to,” you finish, voice quieter now.

he shakes his head once. “didn’t really feel like being alone tonight.”

his mouth found yours like he'd been thinking about it for longer than he'd admit-slow at first, careful, but that didn't last. now, you're backed against the wall of the kitchen. one of his hands braced beside your head, the metal one gripping your thigh. his metal arm was warm from contact and strong-so strong. his touch both calculated and desperate, like he didn't know where to put his hands because he wanted to be everywhere at once. he’s holding you so tight it almost hurts, the line between rough and tender blurring and disappearing. the warm metal of his fingers slips under your shirt, against the bare skin of your stomach, and you realize your back is arched against the wall to keep him against you.

his mouth moves against yours desperately. his stubble scrapes lightly against your chin, a sharp contrast to the soft, warm feel of his lips. he moves again, the hand on your thigh shifting, sliding to your hip, his thumb brushing over the bone there. his breath stutters against your mouth at the same time you gasp softly, your fingers grasping at his shirt. his hand covers your left breast, the metal sending shivers through you, and you try to hold back another gasp.

he pulls back just a fraction, watching you as his thumb brushes over your nipple—once, twice, slow. he does it again, this time pressing harder, grinding his hips against you at the same time, and you whimper against his mouth. he kisses down to your jaw, his teeth scraping against your skin. “shh."

the sound of your breathing fills the room as he teases you, moving his hand in slow, maddening circles. one moment he’s kissing your jaw, the next, he’s sucking a path down your throat, his touch everywhere. the metal of the vibranium was almost burning against your skin. he drags his thumb over you again, making you buck your hips against his. bucky leans against you, the tension in your hips pressing his hardness into you. his mouth is against your neck, his breath and beard sending tingles of pleasure through you with each movement. his hips find a slow, steady rhythm, he presses a trail of kisses down your neck, stopping against your collarbone. your head drops back, hitting the wall behind you with a soft thunk. he presses a kiss to your jawline before leaning up to look at you. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, his expression a little uncertain. “is this-” he pauses, breath hitching as you rock into him. “--is this okay?”

your hips roll against him, your chest rising and falling hard as you try to catch your breath. you find his eyes, and your breath hitches when you see those pretty blue eyes staring back at you like a puppy, his eyes dilated. “this is okay,” you say, voice low, “god, it’s more than okay. please-” he presses his hips to you in a slow drag, his movements languid but calculated. your eyes fall away from his, and a soft whine escapes you as his metal hand trails lazily down your side. he kisses you, deep and hard, his left hand coming up to brace against your throat. he doesn’t press to restrict your air–he wouldn’t do that, and especially not here–he just holds it there, savoring the feel of your pulse moving against his fingers.

his right hand is still sliding across your skin, his thumb brushing against your hip bone. he presses closer, his hips against yours as he guides you up, then down, then up again in a lazy rhythm. he’s still holding your throat with something that almost feels like reverence, the feel of your skin under the pads of his metal fingers is almost hypnotizing. it feels overwhelming and so, so good. bucky’s eyes find yours, his lips parted, his breath coming in little pants. his right hand moves over the lace-adorned fabric, “god,” he whispers, tracing over the hem of your night wear. his hand is still on your neck, the metal so warm from contact.

his metal hand flexes against your neck before trailing down to your lower waist, his hand moves to your warm inner thighs, his middle finger rubbing slowly against the wetness of your panties. he lifts you onto the countertop and his hands go immediately to your thighs, gripping them and spreading them to make room for him. he’s between your legs, his hips rocking against yours as he pulls you to the edge of the counter. his metal hand brushes over the elastic of your panties before gently pulling it off, discarding them somewhere on the counter.

he moves his vibranium fingertip over your entrance before slowly slipping a finger in. his head falls into your neck at how warm you were. his finger dips further in rubbing against your g-spot before slowly pressing in another metal finger. he makes a sound against your skin, a strangled moan that’s muffled by his mouth against your neck. you arch up, but you’re pressed against the counter so all you can do is lean into him, and his hips jerk against yours reflexively. he’s moving slowly, taking his time, the pad of his finger moving in slow circles against your swollen clit that draws a cry from you. he’s watching your face, his flesh hand pressed to your thigh to keep you still. he lets out another sound, and this time it’s a curse that you’re just able to make out between the noises you’re panting out. he hits that sweet spot every. single. time. his forehead pressed against your glistening neck, you can see how hard he is, his hips rocking in time with his big fingers, and he's letting out these mouthwatering whimpers. gently sucking and biting little marks into your collarbone area, his right hand gripping your thigh so hard you know that you'll see some light bruises tomorrow.

you can feel the tension building and building in your lower belly, and when his hips buck particularly harshly one time it presses his thumb into a perfect angle against your clit, making you see white for a second, your eyes fluttering shut as they roll back with a whine, clenching around his fingers, your head lolled back against the wall, you hear him finally say something against your skin, "cum for me– please–" his voice is barely louder than a whisper but you hear him loud and clear. your hips jerk forward before you cum, his name a ragged chant as pleasure washes over you. he works you through it. letting out choked moans, his breath harsh against your skin. he slowly withdrawls his messy metal hand, pressing soft kisses against your neck, you're both a mess, skin slick with sweat, your muscles trembling. he pulls his head away, looking down at his glistening hand before looking back up at you and kissing you.

DUNE

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

PAUL ATREIDES/FEYD-RAUTHA

we dream of knives – one shot. angst.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

CHANI KYNES/IRULAN CORRINO