⛧ gn!reader-insert writer (sfw and nsfw), ftm!reader fics coming soon!
─── currently writing for: Ghost
─── if requesting 18+ content, it will not be filled if asked through anon. i will let you know privately i am unable to write about the topic requested!
─── ao3
⛧ i draw sometimes. check it out!
─── art
─── other hobbies include dancing, singing, cross-stitching, gaming, and listening to music!
y'all.... i already tuckered myself out, i was not expecting so many people to send something in!!! im gonna take a break probably for the rest of the night and tackle everything else tomorrow!!!
your fandom experience will be 100 times more enjoyable if you accept the fact that you do not own your blorbos. people will interpret your blorbos in ways you don’t approve of, people will write fics about your blorbos in ways you disagree with, people will involve your blorbos in ships that make you feel disgusted. BECAUSE YOUR BLORBOS ARE THEIR BLORBOS TOO. there is nothing you can do about that. and making a “call out post” against these people will just make you a bully who thinks harassing real people over thoughtcrimes and fictional characters is justified.
how people enjoy your blorbos and how they portray your blorbos in their fanfics, fan art, headcanons, edits are literally NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.
the world does not revolve around you, and there will always be things that upset you. BUT the good news is that you literally don’t have to care or even acknowledge things that upset you at all. that’s what the block and mute buttons are for. you cannot control what other people do, even when it involves your blorbos, but you can curate your own internet experiences.
you can either be mad at strangers for the sake of fictional characters, or you can enjoy your fandom experience by focusing on the things YOU do enjoy.
hihihi, do you still write for dbh? or exclusively ghost? no worries either way! <3
hello! apologies for the late response 😅 i could definitely whip something up even though i’m a ghost blog now! connor will always live rent free in my mind
nimble, a border collie-papillon mix, wins the 12” class in the 2024 masters agility championship. the first time a mixed breed has won at westminster ever.
☞ 1k words, soft dom-ish copia, smut – fingering, reader has a clit, otherwise no specific words used, physical touch, intimacy, mostly hurt/comfort, 18+
The sound of your knees sinking into the carpet breaks his concentration.
Copia folds the book, sets it aside, and it only takes one glance for him to read you faster than any written word. He lifts his hand, reaching for the soft swell of your cheek, tracing the pillowy outline until his gloved thumb finds your lips. You open obediently, never taking your eyes off of him, but they’re not as bright as usual, weighty lines under heavy lids betraying what you don’t speak. The past weeks have been like sand grinding your gears, he’s been watching you wilting underneath the pressure of it all, retreating into yourself in the way he’s seen too many times before.
“I think it is time we forget everything for a while, baby, hm?” he whispers. “You will let your Papa take care of you tonight, yes?”
“Yes.”
His thumb slips from your mouth as you speak the word. You lean against him, then, the cheek he so lovingly carressed now pressed against rough black fabric. A weary sound leaves your throat and he begins to massage the tension from your jaw with gentle fingers, weaving along the side of your face and into your hair. The massage is slow, unhectic, and he continues until he sees your breathing slow slow slow. How the world tests you, he thinks, and he knows the feeling all too well. But he won’t allow it to continue, not for the next hour, not for the rest of the night.
Copia hasn’t bothered undressing or washing off his make up yet. He feels that painful extension of time as well, how every hour passes so slowly that it feels hard to bear one’s own existence, and yet there is never time enough. Not for what truly matters.
“Come here, amore,” he orders, his voice stern but soft.
He helps you to your feet as he stands himself, embracing you even before you can fully sink against him. You hide your face at his neck, reddened eyes, the simple act of being cared for too much. He’s no stranger to self-loathing and guilt. But it won’t deter him, it never has, catharsis takes many forms and he’s seen most of them by now, one way or another. These shared moments have become easier, after knowing each other so intimately. Carrying each other’s weight for a while has slipped into your routines as naturally as breathing, and he never minds when it’s you.
“No pain, only pleasure tonight, yes?” he murmurs against your head, taking in the sweet scent of you. You nod against him with a low sniffle and he hugs you tighter.
After a while he toys with the hem of your shirt, coaxing it up until you willingly part with it. No rush tonight. Every piece of clothing leaves when you’re ready, his palms caressing every sliver of exposed skin, every curve of your body, every ridge, every plane, soft, well-oiled leather with the heavy insistence of his hands.
Eventually he helps you recline against the pillows in bed, your body warmed from his touch, sinking into the comforting softness, pliant and weightless. He takes you in for a moment, the hot flush on your face and neck, this body he knows so well, loves so dearly. He recognizes every tense muscle, can tell whether the goosebumps on your skin are from pleasure or cold, every mole, every stretch mark, every single hair that adorns your skin has been memorised.
When he sinks down beside you, his lips find your cheek, then your neck, then your shoulder. He remains half on top of you, a comforting weight, still clothed, still in control of every fragment of you. You don’t have to make a single decision, no move to take any influence, not on him or anything at all.
“You are doing so good,” he whispers. “I am so proud of you, amore. Always so proud. Now breathe with me, baby.”
He shows you how, that deep inhalte, the pause in between, and the long exhale. For a while you simply mirror him, face to face now, eyes locked, as his free hand wanders down your body, pressing gently into any knot he can find. He will unravel you in any way possible. And you’re doing so well, so well, breathing in and pausing and breathing out and breathing– –
His fingers brush your soft core and your next breath is short and audible. He smiles, kissing a stray tear from your eyes. He’s been leaving black marks on you but this one is especially beautiful, the shape of his lips on the apple of your cheek. He moves lower now, his fingers parting you carefully, spreading you until he can comfortable tease your entrance, moving back up to your clit and as much as he enjoys you losing yourself in it, he still needs your attention.
“Eyes on me,” he whispers. “Let me see you, my baby. You’re so beautiful like this, eh? Do you know how much I love you?”
You blink your eyes to meet his but they remain heavy. He lets you cling to his shoulder, brings one leg between yours to keep them open for him. Then he gently enters you, one finger, then two, slow and steady, no rush, no matter how much his body tells him he wants you. The gloves almost slip from his fingers with how tightly you’re gripping him and he brings his lips to yours for a sweet moment.
More kisses as he keeps his pace steady, the heel of his palm tightly pressed against you. He can feel the way you’re focused on him now, the way your body has let itself fall into his gentle care with no compromise. He’s rarely felt this needed, this useful, and he lets the sensation carry him until he can feel your soft pulses, until you meet the gentle waves of his hand, and gasp into his mouth, immediately falling back into the long, deep breaths he’s been showing you. He keeps still just like this, watching you as the shadows pass from your eyes, as the warmth in your body brings back your light, even if just for a moment.
I’ll carry your weight, he thinks, I’ll carry it for the rest of my life if I have to.
made a post about this before but as a gentle reminder! afab!reader ≠ f!reader when you’re tagging fics! afab is usually about genitals and not gender identity. f = fem identifying. as a trans person it’s nice to have the distinction so a “good girl” doesn’t come out of left field and hit me in the face like a brick lol
