#pia on kink

[doubledenimcrew]

"Leo was machste du?"

Sich von Adam Handschellen anlegen lassen, siehst du doch

#no kink shaming pia #tatort saarbrücken #spatort

[katiexpunk]

Sex On Fire, Part 1 | Pairing Firefighter!Joel Miller X Fem!Reader

Series Summary: You're a country girl in the big city, thanks to your generous aunt. You expected to have adventures your first year in New York, but what you didn't expect was for your hot, firefighter neighbor, Joel, to be part of them. Part 1 Summary: You move to New York, after a little coaxing from your aunt. You meet your new neighbor, Joel, and quickly learn he's a Captain with the NYFD and good with his hands. Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word Count: ~6.7K Warnings: Sexual tension, sexual tension, sexual tension. This one is dripping in it. No age gap specified. No explicit smut (yet, there's uh...gonna be a lot in part 2), but a nice lead up to it in the end that will probably blue ball you. Groping. Alcohol. Hardcore flirting. Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Kings of Leon song references. Uniform kink. Joel has a hard on for seeing reader in his shirt. Reader's mom has passed. Texas/small town vibes. New York City. There are no specific descriptors for reader, except that she has hair. Ya'll, these two are just down for each other so fucking bad it's not even funny. Authors Note: This one is for my darling moot @darkheartgatita. Pia, thanks for putting Firefighter!Joel into my brain. I hope you enjoy. As always, thank you to my Slutty, Smutty, Sister @sydneyinacoma who inspires me every day and shares her filthy thoughts on the reg. And to everyone who gives my little blog love -- I fucking love you all so much. Part 2, Fall and Winter, will drop next Saturday.

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S P R I N G  Spring blooms, bringing with it a new beginning for you. Of all the places you’d thought you would be, New York was not one of them. 

Life back in Texas wasn't terrible, a bit dull sometimes, but not awful. 

Yet, in the mundane moments, your mind often drifted to daydreams – visions of swapping your Levi's for a sleek black dress and trading quiet farmland for the lively hum of city bars. You’d think of Samantha from Sex and the City sitting on your porch at sunset, drinking Bud Light, wishing your fairy godmother would appear and magically turn it into a dry Martini.

That was until three weeks ago, when your rich aunt, visiting from New York, decided to sprinkle a bit of magic into your life. 

“I’m gonna move to Italy for a while,” she casually said over family dinner as if she was just announcing that she was going to the store for milk. You should have been surprised, but she’s always been the kind to never stick around for too long. Single and child-free, she’s spent her adult life dancing to her free-spirited rhythm, bouncing around from one place to the next. Not because she had to, but because she could. You, on the other hand, were the total opposite.  After your mom passed away, leaving the cocoon of the familiar felt like too much. Despite your aunt's protests and encouragement to just go, you resisted, not wanting to leave behind your dad and the comfortable life you'd known. But if there's one thing you've learned about your aunt, it's that she's relentless – and yanking you out of your comfort zone was precisely what she wanted, and she had just the plan to do it. 

She handed you the keys to her Lower East Side apartment, turning your once silly little daydreams into a reality. “Sweetie, you need this – you’re meant for so much more, your dad will be fine. Please go,” she encouraged. 

Despite your initial reluctance, you caved, and before you knew it, you were on a plane bound for JFK. 

++++ You feel like a small fish in a big pond as you navigate the city. Trying to figure out the subway turns into a whole saga of you getting lost more than once. You eventually find the right borough, but not without a fair share of unhelpful people brushing you off along the way. Yep, you're definitely not in Texas anymore. 

While walking through the city, it hits you that a new pair of shoes is in order; something made clear to you by the little blister on the back of your heel that’s screaming at you. Despite the annoyance, you’re enjoying the walk to the apartment, your new home. The city's buzzing with life, and even the faint smell of urine in the air doesn't bother you. It's a wild, trippy feeling to be in the city, to feel like the main character of your own story. 

You grab your phone, itching to double-check the building your aunt texted and ensure you have the right address. Remembering her advice about the unassuming exterior but spectacular view, you get ready for the big reveal. The key affixed to a keychain with a little apple on it meets the lock, and as you turn it, the door swings open, revealing a spacious wooden staircase.

As you step inside, you notice there's a bit of mail scattered on the slightly dusty floor. You collect the envelopes and magazines with your aunt's name on them and neatly stack the other pieces for Joel Miller into a pile on the bottom step.

After climbing the – Jesus, really fucking narrow – stairs, you're faced with doors opposite each other. While a brief doubt nudges you to recheck the apartment number, your gut tells you that the door with the welcome mat showing lemons and a pot of fake flowers is the one — a stark difference from its neighbor with a simple grey mat and no decor. Trusting your instincts, you decide that the lively entrance is the one. 

As you step inside, you're greeted by a cozy space that, despite its age, radiates warmth and character. The walls are adorned with paintings that seem to tell stories of bygone eras, while rays of sunlight filter through the window, revealing glimpses of the bustling cityscape below. 

Though small, the apartment is meticulously decorated, each corner telling a tale of adventures and cultural escapades. Remnants of your aunt’s travels, collected with care, add a touch of global flair to the modest space. Posters from Broadway plays hang proudly on the walls, as do family pictures. It’s lived-in; the kind of lived-in that feels comfy and embraces you like a warm hug. 

You look at the frames on the wall and pause when you see one of your favorites – a photo of you as a little girl, smushed between your mom and your aunt, a cake three sizes bigger than your tiny head lit up with birthday candles in front of you. You can't help but trace the edges of the frame with your fingertips, connecting with the warmth radiating from your mother's beaming smile. Miss you, mom escapes your lips as your eyes linger on the photograph for a heartbeat longer before the rest of the room demands your attention.

In the compact kitchen, a handwritten note from your aunt beckons, strategically placed beside a bottle of wine on top of a stack of takeout menus. Her words resonate with warmth and encouragement. "Welcome to your new home! I am so proud of you for taking me up on my offer. Disregard the bedroom chaos—I started painting the walls but didn't quite finish before taking off. Feel free to pick up where I left off if the mood strikes. And if you ever need a hand with anything, Joel Miller across the way is a nice guy. I've already told him that you’ll be staying for a while, or who knows, maybe forever. Love you!" The paper carries the unmistakable fragrance of her perfume, and a smile graces your face after you finish reading it. 

Setting the heartfelt note aside, your attention shifts to the menu for Sang Garden, a vibrant pink post-it exclaiming, "Right down the street! Super yummy!" Hunger gnaws at your stomach; the last meal was a distant memory from this morning, and you're ravenous. Without hesitation, you dial the number on the menu, your choice a steadfast favorite: orange chicken. “10 minutes,” the older lady on the phone tells you, not bothering to say goodbye before hanging up. Huh, efficient, you think. 

As the aroma of anticipation fills the air, you finish unpacking your suitcase and weave through your new space until your food is ready. Only having to go down a flight of stairs and less than a block down the street to pick it up is a new feeling for you. If you wanted something like this at home you’d have to drive at least 20 minutes to pick it up. 

You finish the entirety of the meal within minutes curled up on the couch, Sex and the City on the T.V.. Your aunt was right, it’s good. Probably the best orange chicken you’ve ever had in your entire life; just the right amount of zest and sweetness. You can already tell you’ll be a regular. Everyone always talks about the pizza in New York, but nobody bothered to tell you about the Chinese. You can tell you’ll probably have a lot of moments like that, discovering new things for yourself instead of hearing about it from magazines or seeing the photos on Instagram. 

With your belly now full of the sticky goodness, you settle into bed for the night. You stare at the ceiling, paying no mind to the smile that’s been plastered on your face for the past three hours. You feel giddy, like a little girl seeing the stars for the first time. You’re doing it. You’re really doing it. 

The city is still thrumming to life, but the distant sound of sirens and honks eventually turns to white noise as you drift off to sleep. 

++++

The next morning, you rise with purpose; new life breathed into you. You brew a cup of coffee and decide to savor it on the fire escape, enjoying the not-yet-thick spring, and still slightly chilly, spring air. As the city stirs awake beneath you, you’re determined to craft an agenda for the day. With another few days to spare before your new job starts, your thoughts drift to the bedroom, where the abandoned paint cans await. 

It's been a while since you've had the chance to dive into something genuinely productive, or creative for that matter, and you decide that this is the perfect opportunity. Your aunt chose a deep, rich shade of green, one that harmonizes seamlessly with the space; not too dark, but not puke or pea green, either. It’s pretty. She always has had good taste. 

And while you like the color, it’s not particularly one you’d like to see splattered all over your clothing, having only brought what you could fit into a small suitcase. Your aunt must have something, you think. The woman has more clothes than a department store and there is no way she could have brought them all to Italy, although you don’t put it past her to try. 

You make your way to the guest bedroom and rummage through the dresser located there. The top drawer is full of nothing but scrapbooks, the middle drawer has only sweaters, but luck strikes in the bottom drawer, where you locate a handful of old shirts. 

You pull out a dark blue, oversized “New York Fire Department” cotton t-shirt; the front of it has an emblem, and the back says “Rescue 1 FDNY” in faded blocky white letters, obviously well-loved. This will do, you tell yourself, quickly exchanging your tiny crop top for the large shirt. It hangs over your body, the bottom nearly hitting your knees. Why your aunt has such a large shirt in her collection you’ll never know, but you wager it’s probably from one of her many “friends” over the years.  

++++

The sounds of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours" fill the room, you stand in the center of the bedroom, paintbrush in hand, ready to transform the space. The nostalgic chords of Stevie Nicks' voice in Dreams infuse the air, blending with the scent of fresh paint as you dip the brush into the can, and begin. “Like a heartbeat drives you mad,” you sing, slightly off-key, but no one is around to listen and you don’t mind. “Thunder only happens when it’s rainingggggg,” you belt, using the paintbrush as a microphone. 

While most of the paint makes it on the walls, you have to admit that painting isn’t your strong suit and a fair amount of it has splashed back onto your face, shirt, and even your hair. You’re having fun, more fun than you’ve had in a while, even if you make a mess while doing it. Not like you’re gonna see anyone today anyway.

“Players only love you when they’re plaaaaaying…” doing your best Stevie twirl. 

More and more green covers the walls, but as you’re about to get started on the final white wall, you’re interrupted by a loud steady stream of knocks at your door. 

You hit pause on the music, and make your way to the door, unsure of who would possibly be knocking. You peer through the peephole to take a look, but you can only see the back of a man in a simple white shirt, his back turned to face away from the door. You undo the chain lock and swing the door open. 

As the man pivots to meet your gaze, his presence sweeps over you, an unexpected force that leaves you momentarily disarmed. He’s handsome in a way that unmoors you; a mass of a man with broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin, and sculpted biceps that redefine your sense of composure. Whoa.

“Hi,” you murmur, your eyes conveying a blend of softness and curiosity, "Can I help you?"

The man looks at you, and you feel yourself heat under the attention of his gaze. His eyes gently caress your frame; lingering a little too long on the emblem sewn into the fabric, just above your breast. 

"Uh," he clears his throat, his hand rising to his face, fingers subtly grazing the beard hair on his cheek, as if grappling for words. "Yeah, well – no, uh," he stumbles, the words caught in a momentary struggle. "Hi, ‘m Joel Miller, I live across the way," he greets, angling his body to signal to the door directly across the foyer. “Oh right, my aunt told me about you you,” you say, introducing yourself, voice smooth like honey. “She mentioned you were a nice guy and to call you if I ever needed anything,” you say, taking up space in front of him by leaning into the door.  “Just stopping by to say hi, then? Or do you need a cup of sugar or something like that?” you ask with a playful tone. 

Suddenly, the last thing he wants to do is admit that there's something you could help him with—like turning down your music. He likes Fleetwood Mac as much as the next guy, but the last three days on shift have left him craving peace, not a soundtrack reverberating through the thin walls.

Plus, he wasn’t expecting you to be so damn attractive. 

And he definitely wasn’t expecting to be wearing his shirt when you answered the door. 

“Ha, no, don’t need any sugar,” he chuckles, “just thought I’d make myself known.” He pauses, eyes locked onto yours. You notice the subtle flecks of amber in his deep brown eyes and the furrow of his brow. He’s painfully handsome. Just as you’re about to say something, he breaks the silence first, “But I'll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doin’...you look busy,” he tilts his chin to the paint that’s splotched over your bare legs. You can tell he’s looking for the story behind the mess. 

His left hand leaves his pocket and he places it on the doorframe. He leans into it, and your eyes catch the firmness of his bicep flexing under the strain of his lean before meeting his face once more. 

“Cute shirt, by the way” he says, his voice low and even. 

“Oh thanks, you like it?” you ask, pulling the fabric out in a tent from the center, noticing the little splatters of paint as you do. “It’s my aunt’s, I just borrowed it while I finish up some painting.”

“Yeah, I have the same one,” he adds, “looks a helluva lot better on you than it does me, though,” a little laugh leaves his chest and his cheeks flush, a little embarrassed that he just said that. Fuck, it’s been so long since he’s tried to flirt with a woman. 

Your skin prickles with heat, and you’re suddenly very self-aware of what a wreck you must look like, but you decide to be bold anyway. “Maybe we’ll have to compare sometime,” you playfully retort.

“Yeah, maybe we will,” he responds, looking you up and down, hoping the meaning behind his words isn’t too obvious. 

“Well if ya ever need anything, ‘m just across the way,” he says, dropping his hand from the doorframe, hitting his thigh with a slight sound of a pat. “Nice to meet ya, Darlin’,” he says. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker down to your chest once more, your stiff nipples now peeking through the fabric. He turns on his heels and turns his back to walk back to his apartment. 

“Nice to meet you, Joel,” you purr. His head peers over his shoulder back at you, and the corners of his lips turn up in a little smirk. 

Oh god. 

You’re so fucked.

++++

Later that night, you text your aunt that you just met Joel Miller. You curse her for not telling you how incredibly hot he is.  You also tell her that you decided to finish the painting, sending a selfie of you in front of the freshly updated walls with the message. You also add that you borrowed one of her shirts and that you’ll do your best to get the paint out of it. 

Her response causes your breath to hitch in your throat, and your stomach swirls into a tight knot. 

“The walls look amazing! Oh and by the way, that’s not my shirt, it’s Joel’s. I must have forgotten to give it back to him; the shared laundry downstairs sometimes causes mix-ups. Be a doll and give it back to him, will ya? Oh and quarters for the machines are in the clay pot next to the door.” 

Fuck. Of course you would answer the door to your incredibly hot neighbor, covered in paint, in his shirt. You shake your head in embarrassment.

You look down at the shirt and notice just how much paint is all over it. You strip it from your body, bring it over to the sink, and begin to scrub the paint out of it with dish soap. As you watch the paint fade into the warm water, you notice the tag on the inside of the shirt and the rank inscribed in permanent marker on it. 

Your fingers prune in the water, but you eventually get all of the paint out of the fabric. Satisfied with your cleaning job, you hang it up to dry and scribble out a note. 

The following morning, on your way out to explore the city, you leave it neatly folded on Joel’s doorstep. You don’t bother to knock, you’re certain you might combust from embarrassment if you did. 

Shortly after, on his way to work, Joel opens the door and notices the shirt by his boot, a little envelope placed on top of it. 

“You could have told me it was your shirt, Captain Miller.” 

Joel smirks. The cat’s out of the bag on that little secret then. He places it inside and lets out a little sigh. The image of your perky nipples, exposed legs, and messy paint-riddled hair flashes in his brain. 

God, he wishes you would have kept it. 

S U M M E R

As spring transitions into summer, the city experiences a gradual warming trend. Cherry blossoms and tulips from spring slowly give way to vibrant green foliage. Parks become lively with people enjoying the pleasant weather, and outdoor events become more frequent. The temperature rises, and there's a noticeable shift towards a warmer atmosphere with longer days. 

It’s a shift you also feel in yourself, having found your niche, carving out your place in the ecosystem of the city. You’ve gradually adjusted, figured out how to successfully navigate the complexities of the subway system, and are starting to rely less and less on Google Maps to get around. You frequent a bodega around the corner from you, know where to find a decent bagel, and are a recognizable regular at Sang Garden. 

Your new job keeps you busy. It’s tough work being a bartender in the city, but it’s granted you more than one opportunity to meet people from all walks of life, people you’d never get the opportunity to meet back in your hometown. 

People like the gregarious and charismatic trader, who’s more than happy to make it clear he works in the financial district, even when nobody asks. People like the countless young professionals unwinding after a long day with their colleagues; some with sexual tension so obvious you can taste it. Designers. Architects. Engineers. Writers. Musicians. Actors. You don’t like them all, but you don’t have to, you’ll never see most of them more than once anyway. 

You quickly learn the art of making a good martini, one you think would make Samantha proud. It’s all so posh. So far from your usual. But the money is good, and without having to pay rent – a luxury you now realize; having almost fainted when your coworker told you how much he pays in rent – it allows you to pocket most of it. 

Your first few months in New York have been good, although a tad lonely. Making friends was never really a strong suit of yours, and you’re finding the city to be a particularly hard place to get to know people in any real way. Most of your free time is spent curled up with a good book or watching Friends for the millionth time, wishing Central Perk was a real place. 

You see Joel in passing now and then, the in-between times when he’s coming home from work, and you’re just leaving for yours. Sometimes you pass each other on the stairs, and you have to angle your bodies side-to-side just to fit on the narrow stairs as you navigate around one another. You sometimes have to collect your composure when you leave for work and notice the faint smell of his cologne still in the hallway, it smells so good it makes you dizzy. 

You find excuses to talk to him every now and then – a squeaky fire detector, to hand him his mail, or even for a stupid cup of sugar. Every time you find yourself knocking on his door, the butterflies congregate in masses as if preparing to migrate. You feel like a school girl with a crush for the first time, but as far as you can tell, Joel doesn’t feel the same, and you’re okay with that. At least that’s what you try to tell yourself. 

The exchanges are always short; little blips in the grand scene of time, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling like you might faint under the intensity of his scorching gaze. Which doesn’t help, considering it’s already sweltering outside. 

You severely underestimated how hot summer would be. Of course, you’re used to the oppressive Texas sun, but something about the way the buildings and concrete reflect the rays makes it feel like New York is at least 10x hotter. 

The temperature in your apartment isn’t much better than outside. The air hangs heavy inside as you lay on your mattress, clad in only a bra and underwear, on crisp white sheets, attempting to cool yourself with a damp towel on your forehead. You listen to the feeble hum of the wall crying out for help. 

As luck would have it, the overworked unit decides to give in to the heat. Beads of sweat form on your forehead as you attempt to fix it, but it’s pointless. You stare at the lifeless unit, realizing that the city’s relentless heat has claimed it as a victim. Time for a new one. 

Once the sun dips past the skyline, you venture out to your local hardware store to grab a new one. You wish you would have had some forethought to bring a cart or something, not thinking about the fact that you were going to have to carry the heavy unit eight city blocks. Coulda, shoulda, woulda, you think to yourself. Once back to your apartment, you balance the quirky box on your hip, holding it steady with one arm as you fumble to grab the key from your purse outside the entrance of the building. Your cheeks are warm, you’re drenched in sweat even at this hour, and your hair is starting to stick to the nape of your neck. You manage to grab it, but inadvertently drop it, your fingers clammy. 

“Shit,” you mutter, frustrated and hot. 

“Need some help there, Darlin’?” Joel asks, making his way up the stoop. You turn to face him and oh. 

Of all the times you’ve seen Joel, you’ve never seen him in uniform. The sight catches you off guard. His crisp, navy blue uniform emphasizes his broad shoulders and neatly tucked shirt, the shiny FDNY badge on his chest. He flashes a charming smile, revealing a hint of dimples, as he picks up your fallen key with ease. You’re not sure how he always manages to look so put together, a stark contrast to the way you always seem to look in front of him. 

"Rough day?" he asks, unlocking the door, and for a moment, you forget the oppressive heat, captivated by his charm. “Here, lemme take that for you,” he offers, and you kindly accept. You shift the box out of your arms into his, and your stomach swoops when you watch the way his biceps flex as he grabs the unit with ease. 

Grateful for the assistance, you offer a sheepish smile, “Yeah, you could say that” you reply, opening the door, holding it open for him. He begins to ascend the staircase ahead of you, giving you a full view of his ass in his uniform pants; it’s toned, and his thick thighs match. You walk behind him, trying to ignore the stickiness that’s beginning to pool in your underwear. You allow yourself to perv out for a moment, at least while his back is to you. He’s just helping you out, stop being weird.

Joel waits at the top of the steps for you to open your door. Once unlocked, you enter and he follows behind you. “Oh shit, it’s hotter than hell in here,” he says once inside, the irony is not lost on you that a literal man who fights fires for a living thinks it’s hotter than hell. He bends to place the box down near the front door and rises to full height, bringing both hands to his hips. You notice the little sheen of sweat that has now collected on his thick neck, fighting the impulse to lap up the perspiration. “You’re telling me, I’m rendering lard,” you say, letting your Southern roots shine through. You cringe a little at yourself, watering your accent down to not stick out as much, but you’re reminded of the age-old saying you can take the girl out of the country… 

You wipe the back of your hand on your forehead to push away the sweat that’s been collecting there all day and look at him. “Thanks for the help carrying it up,” you say, offering him a kind smile. 

“No problem at all, need some help installing it? These units can be tricky,” he asks, trying his best to ignore the fact that your white shirt has gone see-through from your sweat, allowing him a perfect view of your breasts. No bra again, he notes. He shifts his stance a little, trying to prevent his cock from hardening at the sight. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, a little unsure, but deep down you know you need the help. As much as you’d like to think of yourself as an independent and capable woman, you’ve never been one to be good with anything mechanical, and the heat has left your brain feeling like the static of a T.V. channel with no reception. 

“Course. I’m a servant to public safety. Can’t have you accidentally pushing it out the window and crushing a person below, it’d be a lot of paperwork” he chuckles and takes out a knife from his pocket to undo the tape on the box.  It’s an ordinary act, yet somehow you’re mesmerized by his dexterity and competency. 

Midway through the process, Joel pauses, feeling the heat, and glances at you with a lighthearted grin. “Mind if I take this off?” he asks, tugging at the collar of the uniform shirt. You nod, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Sure, go ahead.” 

His large fingers fumble with the buttons on the shirt, eventually revealing a white tank top underneath. The fabric clings to him, highlighting his defined chest, and a little bit of belly. You practically drool at the sight, once again resisting an impulse to want to sink your flesh into the softness above his belt. 

He has an awful farmer's tan, but he wears it well; his forearms are a nice shade of golden and his shoulders are pale. You see from the lack of collar on the tank that he has a bare chest. He throws the uniform shirt onto a nearby chair and goes back to work installing the unit. You watch as he works to position it in the window, stealing glances at his glistening skin as he does. You think you’re being sly about it, but Joel can tell, he can feel your eyes heavy like bowling balls on him. 

“So, how long have you been a firefighter?” you ask.

“About 15 years,” he responds. “Sorta always knew I wanted to do it, I was a contractor for a while, but wasn’t my thing.”

“Oh no? You seem like you’re pretty good with your hands,” you reply, your words suggestive. 

“Never said I wasn’t, Darlin,’” he replies, shooting you a wink. 

He plugs the unit in, and the screen comes to life. He sets the temperature as low as it will go, and the fan on high; the unit is about to put in overtime to make the air tolerable again. 

“Well, that should do it,” straightening back up from his bent-over position, clapping his hands together as if to dust the task off. “Probably gonna take a while for it to cool down in here. You’re uh, more than welcome to hang out at mine for the time being. Don’t need you overheating on me,” trying to mask his excitement at you being in his space by carding his fingers through his salt and pepper curls. 

You glance at the unit, and you can tell he’s right. “Alright, why not,” you say, offering him a smile. “Just gonna use the restroom fast,” you say, looking for an excuse to make yourself at least somewhat presentable and confirm that you don’t smell like a sweaty subway car. 

Inspecting yourself in the harsh, exposing light of the bathroom, you grimace at your appearance. Not that you’d been expecting to look your best, but still. You pat the extra moisture off your skin with a clean towel, when you notice that nipples are straining against the fabric of your wet t-shirt, leaving nothing to the imagination. You briefly consider changing shirts, but the cheeky side of you decides to leave it be. You give yourself a quick smile and internal encouragement in the mirror and you step out of the bathroom. 

Joel waits in the foyer by the door for you, taking the opportunity to learn a little more about you, drinking in the details of your space for any glimmers of insight it might give him about your life. 

He’s been in the space before, but it’s different this time – updated. It still has many of the same things your aunt had put up, but you’ve added new additions to the walls; photos of you with friends, and family, and vinyl covers in frames. His eyes gravitate to a photo of you at your college graduation; your smile ear to ear, a bottle of champagne in your hands. You always seem happy. He likes that about you. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t look for a photo of you with another guy, a hint that you might already be taken, but he’s relieved when he doesn’t find one. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft creak, and you stroll out, shooting him a casual but confident smile. As you do, you casually tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, giving off an easygoing vibe. It's a simple move, but there's a certain charm to it that doesn't go unnoticed by Joel.

“Ready?” you ask, and he clears his throat, trying to hide his pleasure that you opted not to change your still slightly transparent shirt. “Let’s get outta here,” he says, yanking on the handle, the door groans and opens with a loud creak. “Don’t wanna hit traffic.” Oh god, that’s a dad joke if you’ve ever heard one. You try to hide the stupid smile that graces your face, but Joel sees it, and matches it. Your shoulder brushes against his chest as you walk through the door, and Joel straightens in response, a little tingle shooting up his spine from the brief touch. Get a fucking grip, Miller, he thinks to himself, pulling the door closed behind him. 

++++

Once inside his apartment, you gasp. It’s not at all what you expected. 

If his front doorstep was any indication, you expected his apartment to be full of Ikea furniture, bare walls, and maybe a fake plant in the corner somewhere. You’re pleasantly surprised when you find that it’s the exact opposite; you feel like you’ve just wanted into some swanky bar. The air smells like palo santo, but above all, it’s cool. You let out a sigh of relief. 

“Can I get you a beer” he asks, and you nod your head in response. He walks into the kitchen, and you’re mesmerized by his space. It’s a similar layout to your apartment, but somehow it feels bigger, even a tad cozier, plus he has exposed brick, a detail you wish your apartment had. 

“Your apartment is amazing,” you tell him, spinning around to get a full 360 view of the space. You hear him yell something like thanks from the kitchen. 

You find your seat on the cognac-colored couch and run your hand up and down the texture of it. The leather is cool on your skin, and your body temperature slowly begins to return to normal.

Joel returns from the kitchen, and hands you a Bud Light. And for once, you don’t wish for it to turn into a martini. Now having spent a few months in the city, you’re starting to realize that you’re more of a bud girl than a cocktail girl, and that fairy godmothers are a tad overrated. 

You’re not sure when he did it, but your ear tunes to the classic sound of Beast of Burden by the Rolling Stones playing in the background at a low volume, adding a funk you adore to the moment. 

He finds a seat on the couch next to you and throws his arm behind you on the ledge. He crosses his legs over one another, and you squirm, not out of discomfort, but nerves. 

“I am impressed with your apartment, it’s well decorated,” you compliment him, bringing the bottle of beer to your lips. 

“Had a bit of help, ‘f I’m being honest,” he replies. Your stomach flips. 

“Oh?” you say, a bit breathless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course, he would have a girlfriend. You see it plain as day now, the feminine touches built into the apartment, hanging on the walls in plain sight, taunting you with the obvious. He even has like ten live plants for fucks sake. Joel Miller is taken. 

“My daughter, Sarah,” he replies, bringing the beer to his mouth for another swig. You try not to make your sigh of relief too obvious. “Oh!” you squeak and turn your body to face him. You don’t know if you’ve scooted closer or if he did, but your thighs are now touching. 

“She’s studying interior design. Begged me this past year to let her fix up my apartment, and well…I didn’t have the heart ta say no,” he replies. “Said my apartment resembled a frat boys bachelor pad,” he lets out a gruff little chuckle and you smile at him. 

His arm drifts close to you, his hand nearly touching your shoulder. It’s not quite there, but you can feel the heat, the electricity, his fingertips shoot to your skin. So much for cooling down.

“Well, if you didn’t decorate the space, what’s your favorite part about it then?” you ask, taking another swig at the bottle. Joel stares at your lips as they latch around the glass, admiring how plush and warm they look. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder what they might look like around his cock.

“Ah, good question,” he says, bringing his hand to cover his crotch with the bottle, all while subtly trying to adjust himself from his previous thought. He’s surprised he even heard your question at all. “Probably the table over there,” he says, nodding his head back to signal to the dining room. 

“Made it myself,” he says, a bit of pride in his voice. 

You crane your neck to look, but can’t get a good view with how plush the cushions are. You slightly angle your body upwards, coming onto your knee on the couch to look, bringing your chest closer to Joel’s face.

“Well I’ll be damned, you really must be good with your hands,” you playfully tease, letting your body sink by his side once more, feeling the warmth he exudes. Your words cause his gaze to go dark. “Mhmm,” he murmurs, taking another sip of his beer, sure if he said any more he might regret it. 

You notice the music switches to Kings of Leon, a favorite tune of yours echoing through the air. “Oh shit, I love this song,” you exclaim, barely able to contain your excitement, much to Joel’s delight. 

“Yeaaaaaah, your sex is on fireeeee,” you belt, and you inadvertently tilt your beer bottle a little too far down in the process of your solo, and a splash of beer pours out onto Joel’s lap. The action abruptly causes you to stop. 

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” you apologize profusely, setting the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table in front of you, noticing the box of tissues as you do.

“Don’t worry about it, Darlin’,” he says, voice mellow, placing his beer on the table, too.

You frantically grab a handful of tissues and bring them over to the wet spot pooling on Joel’s crotch. “Here, let me,” you say, dabbing at the liquid, the realization not fully hitting you that your hands are literally on his crotch until – oh.

Joel’s been walking the fine line of a stiff one all night, and your simple gesture throws him over the edge, the dabbing causing blood to rush to his cock. 

You continue to blot at the liquid and notice him stiffening underneath you. A heavy rush of arousal courses through you, and heats your core. Joel’s hand darts to grab your wrist, the size of it completely swallowing up your entirety of it, his fingers wrapped around it, and you’re certain he feels your pulse quicken under his touch.

You look up at him with big doe eyes, only to find his own pupils are blown open wide with lust, his jaw tense. His other hand finds the side of your face, and he holds you up to look at him. You both pause there, letting the tension of the moment swallow you whole. He looks at you like you're a juicy summer peach, ripe for the picking.

His grip on your wrist softens, and you flatten your hand to palm at his growing bulge. Joel lets out a deep groan in response to the full contact. “Shit darlin’,” he says, voice wrecked. His hand drifts to the column of your neck, and he begins to pull you up so you’re face-to-face with him. 

The anticipation builds, and just as your lips are about to meet, a sudden shrill sound shatters the moment – the fire alarm. 

“Fuck.” Joel groans.

TO BE CONTINUED - READ PART 2

Tagging moots and those who I think might like this: @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @bastardmandennis @untamedheart81@lavema @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @dugiioh @nervoushottee @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings@josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @peachmy @survivingandenduring@darkheartgatita @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @dins-riduur-anthe @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro As always, feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list, or removed (even if we're moots, no hard feelings). Might transition to a notifs blog soon.xx

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff #joel miller #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedro pascal #new york #firefighter smut #pedro stories

[imninahchan]

⌜ 𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑺𝑶𝑺: enzo!namoradinho, slice of life, um bocadito só de espanhol, size kink, a leitora é br e um pouco menor que o enzo (meninas altas maravilhosas me perdoem pfv), ciúmes, oral fem, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sexo sem proteção [não faça!]. ˚☽˚.⋆ ⌝

꒰ 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑨 𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑨 ꒱ mais um para todas as cadelinhas desse uruguaio aleatório pelo qual a gente se apaixonou perdidamente. come o brasil lindo.

𓍢ִ໋🀦 ENQUANTO ELE SALPICA O FRASCO DE TEMPERO NA PANELA FERVENTE, VOCÊ TERMINA DE CORTAR A CEBOLA VERDE SOBRE A TÁBUA DE PLÁSTICO ─────

Enzo mexe o conteúdo com a colher de madeira, segura com a outra mão no cabo levemente aquecido e pende a cabeça pro canto, feito ponderasse sobre o procedimento. Por fim, estala a língua e te oferece um olhar. Será que já tá bom, não?

Você desliza o dedo pela lâmina de aço, limpando antes de pegar mais montinho com três folhas da cebola.

— Não — diz —, ainda falta colocar as cebolinhas. E ainda nem piquei o pimentão.

— É que tá borbulhando muito.

— É pra ferver mesmo, Enzo.

— Mas tá demorando, eu tô com fome.

Você até deixa de picar o tempero, direcionando ao namorado um olhar sem graça, sério. E o vê abrindo um sorriso, esticando os lábios devagarzinho, quase que em câmera lenta. Sai, Enzo, resmunga, irritadiça, largando a faca pra tomar da mão dele a colher de pau.

Mexe a panela, de frente para o fogão, no lugar em que ele estava. A mão livre vai parar na cintura, cheia de marra. Aspira o cheirinho da iguaria que fabricam, o estômago até ronca. Era pra ser só mais um jantar normal em casa, porém queria comer algo diferente, e o uruguaio ficou todo animado para abrir o Google no celular e pesquisar uma receita que nunca tinham provado antes.

— Vai botar uma camisa — você manda, sem mesmo encará-lo.

Ele recosta na pia, logo atrás de ti. Corre os dedos pelos fios negros ainda úmidos por ter saído do banho direto para a cozinha e te ajudar no que orientasse.

— Por quê? — devolve, cruzando os braços. Não pode ver, porque está de costas, mas o sorrisinho ladino na face do homem combina muito bem com a canalhice que murmura ao pé do seu ouvido, inclinando-se pra frente. — Tá te distraindo, nena?

Você sacode os ombros, de cara feia. Ih, menino, expressa de uma maneira tão brasileira, com sotaque e tudo, que o faz rir. O seu mau humor aparente, entretanto, não é motivo para que ele possa cessar com a implicância. Empenhado numa missão de te tirar do sério, pelo que parece, fica parado bem atrás de ti, as mãos escondidas na bermuda de moletom. Dá pra sentir a virilha masculina recostando na sua bunda de leve, a respiração quente sendo soprada na sua pele. E só de ter consciência de que o corpo dele sobressai o seu, já se encontra inquieta.

— O que você quer, hein? — solta, sem se virar. — Vai picar o pimentão.

Ele nada responde. De canto de olho, você nota o rosto alheio se aproximando; o olhar fixado em ti, o pescoço tombado. Não sabe exatamente qual é o propósito dele ao te encher o saco dessa forma, porém não pode negar pra si mesma que o frio na barriga que sente só com essa interação é um reforço do quanto é rendida por ele. Ao mesmo tempo que quer ser dura, quer também que ele prossiga te amolando.

E Enzo tem o melhor jeito de te amolar, não é? Agora, por exemplo, a escolha é tascar um beijo no seu pescoço sem aviso prévio, enquanto os dedos afundam nos cabelos da sua nuca de uma forma tão intensa que você por pouco não derrete. Enzo!, repreende, num sobressalto. O dá um empurrãozinho com o ombro, mas é detida pela força do maior, que rodeia a sua cintura com as mãos e recosta o nariz na lateral da sua face.

— Tão bonita nervosinha. Mandona — te fala, entre sussurros. — Toda brasileira é assim?

— Só quando namoram uruguaios insuportáveis de chato. — Espalma a mão no peito dele para afastá-lo, sem falhar miseravelmente dessa vez. — Pica o pimentão, anda.

Ele bate continência, sí, señora, submetendo-se a sua ordem. Você desvia o olhar, não quer deixá-lo ver o sorrisinho que cresce nos seus lábios ao ouvir tal frase. Parece que, às vezes, esse pilantra faz algumas coisas por pura maldade. Você manda, e eu obedeço, bella, e quando ele completa com o elogio, nossa, o seu coração por um triz não erra as batidas.

Não pretende dar muita atenção, Enzo é assim; quanto mais você der corda, mais ele vai fazer. Por breves minutos, a cozinha fica em paz, somente o borbulhar do caldo e o estalo da lâmina na tábua reverberam. Você o supervisiona, silenciosa, os olhos atentos observando o corte do pimentão. Mas a calmaria se esvai assim que ele se aproxima de ti novamente, enganando como quem só vem para te entregar mais ingredientes. Apenas tem tempo de derrubar o legume picadinho na panela, porque os braços dele te envolvem e tiram do chão.

Filho da mãe, xinga umas duas ou três vezes seguidas, até quando é colocada de volta no chão. Mais uma vez, quer manter a postura, entrega a tábua de plástico para ele de novo, e volta a atenção pra comida no fogo. Pinga um bocadinho do caldo na palma da mão, para experimentar. Mais um pouquinho de sal, talvez...

— Enzo! — Não consegue nem esticar a mão para pegar o saleiro na prateleira ao lado, a mordida que recebe no espacinho por trás da orelha te faz encolher, na ponta do pés. E não só isso, não, é claro que ele não se dá por satisfeito só com isso. O olhar afiado na sua direção, mordendo o lábio feito um moleque que vem aprontar mais uma.

Afunda o rosto na curva do seu pescoço, de olhinhos fechados e tudo. Rodeia com os braços, esfrega o nariz pela sua pele, os dentes mordiscam na cartilagem da orelha, capturam o lóbulo. O chamego te faz arrepiar, principalmente quando ele afasta os seus cabelos para se colocar por trás de ti outra vez e beijar a sua nuca.

— Para de me atazanar — manha, mesmo gostando do carinho que recebe. — Deixa eu terminar isso aqui, que ainda vou levar um pouco pra Dona Lucía. — Tenta se apartar dos braços dele.

— Quê? Quem?

— Que mora aqui na rua. O filho dela gostou da minha comida. — Nem precisa mais se dar ao trabalho de soltar-se sozinha, ele mesmo toca a sua cintura para virar as tuas costas contra o fogão, o encarando por fim.

— Como assim? Que filho? Qual o contexto disso? — as perguntas vem uma depois da outra, apressadas. O sorriso travesso que também se mostrava na face masculina agora dá lugar a uma expressão mais contida.

— Nada. Eu levei um pedaço daquele bolo que eu fiz semana passada, aí ela disse que ele gostou.

— Hm, então agora você tá alimentando o filho da vizinha?

— Tsc, que alimentando o filha da vizinha, cara... — Cobre o rosto dele com a palma da sua mão, empurra de levinho. E ele responde, óbvio, o ciúmes repentino devora os bons modos, pois pega nos seus cabelos pela nuca, envergando o seu pescoço pra dar espaço pra boca dele poder mordiscar e chupar a pele o quanto quiser. — Meu deus, ‘cê tá insuportável hoje...

A voz rouca ecoa manhosa, arrastada, ao pé do seu ouvido. Tô com fome, nena.

— Se ajudasse mais e atrapalhasse menos, talvez já estivesse comendo — retruca, durona.

Enzo segura nos cantos do seu rosto.

— Não, ‘cê não entendeu... — diz. Olha nos seus olhos. — Tô com fome, nena.

Você sorri, boba. Evita até devolver o contato visual, porque começa a sentir o rosto mais quente, as pernas bambeando. Tanta amolação, deveria saber que ele queria alguma coisa.

— Entendeu agora, hm? — Ele tomba a cabeça, o olhar paquerando os seus lábios entreabertos. — Ou eu preciso dizer mais alguma coisa? Falar mais bonitinho.

— A panela tá no fogo.

E ele roda o botão, desligando o fogo. Simples.

— Algo mais? — te pergunta. — E não se preocupa com o ʽfilho da vizinhaʼ, eu mesmo vou lá mais tarde levar.

Você ri, a entonação dele ao se referir ao desconhecido parece cômica, embora você tenha plena certeza que cutucou o urso com a vara curta.

— Vai, é? — replica, de bom humor.

— Uhum. — Encosta a ponta do nariz na sua.

— Você é muito bobo, sabia?

— Uhum. — Te dá um selinho, uhum, e depois outro, mesclando entre o seu riso, até que toma a sua boca para si. Os lábios estalam, em belo encaixe, a língua ardente empurra a sua.

Os seus dedos se entrelaçam entre os cabelos dele, apertam os fios na palma da mão, enquanto sente as mãos alheias, por sua vez, firmes na sua cintura, de modo que até te separa do fogão para manter o mais colada possível no corpo masculino. Não solta as mechas espessas nem mesmo quando o assiste descendo os beijos pelo seu corpo abaixo. No decote da blusa do seu pijama, por cima do tecido, na pele do seu ventre quando puxa o seu short.

Os beijinhos pela virilha transformam-se em chupões, regiões que ficam marcadas de saliva quente e depois fazem arrepiar quando a temperatura amena da noite bate. Com o toque das mãos nas suas coxas, o homem te leva a separar um pouco as pernas, mas não perde o rosto no meio delas sem antes erguer o olhar para ti, exibir aquele sorrisinho que te faz querer resmungar um seu puto, por tão bobinha de tesão que te deixa.

Ainda ganha uma mordidinha no joelho, seguida por um beijo tão docinho que você afaga os cabelos grandes, num suspiro. O carinho se expande do jeito que você imaginava, a boca do uruguaio dominando, agora, o seu íntimo. A língua perpassando por aqui e ali, fazendo uma bagunça molhada entre as dobrinhas. Sugando o mel do prazer que escorre a cada carícia.

Pega a sua perna para apoiá-la sobre o ombro dele, conseguir um ângulo em que possa te oferecer mais, devorar melhor. Você se segura na bordas do fogão, a coluna vergando pra frente, lutando contra a vontade de fechar as pernas por tamanha queimação deliciosa que sente tomando conta da boca do estômago. Arfa, ofegando.

Enzo usa o indicador e o médio para expor o seu pontinho inchado, sensível. É canalha quando abusa do nariz grande pra roçá-lo por ali, devasso, te colocar na ponta do pé como resposta ao estímulo. Não vai aguentar, sabe que não vai conseguir resistir por muito tempo. E quanto mais você pensa na sensação, mais ela te domina, te vence. Quer avisar que vai deixar-se levar, porém te falta fôlego. As perninhas tremem, o gemido manhosinho ecoa em meio à busca por oxigênio, o peito apertado, doído.

O uruguaio, no entanto, aproveita o seu êxtase para sugar mais uma vez, beber do corpo no qual vai se enfiar na primeira oportunidade que tiver. Ao levantar-se do chão, os lábios estão meladinhos, brilhando sob a lâmpada da cozinha. Mesmo sabendo do quão frágil você está agora, não pode se afastar nem por um segundo, mantém uma das mãos entre as suas pernas. O dedo médio escorregando do seu clitóris abusadinho até se colocar pra dentro, mal cabendo de tanto que você contrai, apetecida.

— Ali — apesar do desejo fazê-lo pulsar, na ânsia de te ter, é calmo ao orientar, com um aceno da cabeça na direção da bancada. E ele mesmo te guia até lá. Nota a sua expressão de perdida, respirando pesado, tão bambinha e tola que o homem sorri, o ego elevado por ter te causado tamanho estrago. — Mira, cariño — segura nos cantos do seu rosto para tentar fisgar a sua atenção. A voz soa tranquila, as palavras saem devagarzinho, pra combinar com o seu estado bobinho —, vira pra mim, hm? Quero ficar dentro de você agora, vira, okay? — Mas você não responde, embora compreenda o significado do que ouve, ainda muito dispersa pelo orgasmo recente. Enzo sorri de novo, divertindo-se. Beija o seu queixo. Ah, tão lindinha, nena...

Te coloca de costas pra ele. Sopra ao pé do seu ouvido que precisa que você se curve um pouquinho, só que ele faz por ti. Enquanto se livra das próprias roupas, não impede os lábios de beijarem pelo seu ombro. Ou, depois, as mãos de deslizarem pelos lados do seu corpo, afetuoso, até que venha a se alinhar pra se pôr dentro.

O ritmo é lento, sensual. Não há pressa alguma, porque sabe que você é dele, que pode te ter hoje, amanhã e em qualquer outro momento. Praticamente te abraça por trás, de olhos fechados, a sua pele queima contra a dele. O rosto deita na curva do seu pescoço, a mão subindo por baixo da blusa de pijama para segurar no seu seio.

Se entrega nas mãos dele até que o sinta te inundar com todo o sentimento que acumulou tão lentamente. O seu interior fica mais quente, lateja. Mas ele não te abandona, não se retira de ti nem quando finaliza por inteiro.

Você escuta a respiração pertinho do seu ouvido, um ranger rouco da voz embebedada pelo ápice. É abraçada com mais força, mais carinho. Te quiero, reina, e estala um beijo na sua bochecha. Muchísimo. Hasta la luna y más alla. Te amo.

#imninahchan #enzo vogrincic fanfic #enzo vogrincic x reader #enzo vogrincic smut #enzo vogrincic #la sociedad de la nieve #a sociedade da neve

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Midnight Masquerade - Echo

Chapter Summary: Echo is the lucky bastard who gets to fuck you—or maybe you're the lucky one.

Chapter Warnings: siren!Echo x gn!reader; kinks: formal wear + voice kink. unprotected penetrative sex (can be read as PiV or PiA), cum as lube, Echo has hair because I say so, this one's a little more tame on the 'monster'fucker front but I hope it ticks some boxes for y'all regardless; if I missed any warnings please lmk!

Word Count: 2.6k

Read the intro here! | Suggested listening

...Echo. 

A round of wolf-whistles rises from the rest of the table (quite literally, in Hunter’s case). Echo jostles you with his elbow, a good-natured grin gracing his features. Quirking an eyebrow at him, you drink in the sight of him sitting next to you. His perfectly tailored suit hugs his body in all the right places, thighs straining against the fine material; the silken red bowtie at his neck draws your eye appreciatively down the strong column of his throat. His hair has grown back in a fuzzy nest of brown curls that he’s slicked back. In short, he looks positively mouth-watering. That’s exactly what happens as you rake your gaze over him.

“Get a room, you two,” Fives jeers, playfully tossing a balled up napkin at you. 

It bounces harmlessly off your face. You flash him a rude gesture before rising to your feet, offering your hand to Echo.

“Shall we?”

He takes your hand. Against your skin, his satin glove is smooth and warm, the strength of his grip belied by the entrapment. You suppress a shiver as you step away from the table, Echo trailing you, fingers laced through yours. 

As you begin to wind your way through the crowd, you shoot a glance over your shoulder to Echo. He smirks at you, one eyebrow raised as if in question. In the strobing, multicolored lights, he looks near ethereal, a vision stepped straight out of one of those high-end Coruscanti model holos. You bite your lip. 

His smirk deepens. Tugging you back against his chest, he wraps his scomp arm around your middle to hold you against his chest. He carefully presses his cheek to the side of your head, mindful of his headpiece, and inhales your scent.

“Care for a dance, cyare?” he asks.

A delightful, full-body tingle shivers through you at the way his voice rumbles against your ear. “You read my mind.” 

He hums, the sound sending another frisson of exhilaration cascading through all your nerves. Not releasing his hold on you, your hands still entwined where he brings them to rest on your hip, he finds the rhythm of the song, a deep, bassy, sexy beat that vibrates your bones. Gently, giving you enough leeway in case you decide you want to pull away, he guides your hips to the music. 

It’s all the encouragement you need. Circling your hips, you grind your ass against his crotch, earning a low, groaning chuckle. Snaking your hand free up and back, you thread your fingers through his curls. Echo turns his head, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point just below your jaw.

A gasp escapes you, lost in the consuming bass of the music. He laves at that spot, nipping playfully. 

Emboldened by the shifting, partial lighting and his lips on your neck, you grind against him again as you draw his hand up your chest. A moan tumbles from you as the half-hard definition of his cock presses against you through layers of clothing. His fingers dance over your chest, tweaking a nipple through your shirt.

“Feel what you do to me, pretty thing?” he murmurs, voice sliding like honey over your ears. “Drive me kriffin’ crazy.”

You’ve never realized it before, but stars, you could listen to Echo talk all day. He could read a damn dictionary and you’d be enthralled. Turning your head, you peer up into his eyes, mere pinpricks of shine in the green-tinted lights flashing around you. Dropping your gaze to his lips, your eyelashes flutter. 

“What d’you want, cyare, hm? Tell me,” he urges, eyes fixated on your parted lips.

“I want,” you begin, voice tremulous, “I want to kiss you.” 

“You wanna kiss me?” he repeats, a dangerous smirk curling over his face.

Gulping, you nod. You don’t trust your voice now to not reveal the intensity of the fire scorching through your veins. 

With a contented sigh, Echo tips his head forward and captures your lips in a heated kiss. His scomp tugs you tighter against his chest as he practically ruts his hardness against your ass, When he tugs again at your nipple, you whimper into his mouth. Electricity sparks where he touches you. But he doesn’t relent, kissing you until you’re dizzy with want. Arousal pools hot and tight in your belly.

“Kriff,” you gasp as you pull away from his mouth, “kriff, Echo, stars.” 

He chuckles. His gaze sweeps over the crowd around you—but no one seems to be paying you any mind. “What’s the matter, sweetness?”

“Want you,” you say, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

“Want me to what?”

His voice has dropped an octave, positively dripping with sex, and you shudder in his grasp. How can one person’s voice be so alluring, so enticing? 

Rather than using your words, you extricate yourself from his embrace and, crooking one finger with a coy smile, urge him to follow you again. A bemused smile graces his features; he slips his hand into his pocket as he steps after you.

You lead him towards the back hallway you’d caught sight of earlier, down a series of blind turns, and pick a door at random. Within, there’s a simple bed with silk sheets; dozens of candles, strewn on every available surface, cast the room in a cheery, cozy glow. Echo moves past you, surveying the room with a curious expression.

“This works,” you say, shutting the door. 

You take another moment to really, fully appreciate the specimen of a man before you. Echo gives you an indulgent smile. Backlit by the flickering candlelight, he looks divine; the crisp lines of his black suit outline his silhouette in exquisite fashion. Up close, you realize that the fabric isn’t solid black, but rather one shade of black embroidered with another, darker hue. Tracing one of the repeating designs, you reach with tentative fingers to unbutton the matching vest.

Only to gasp in surprise when his hand catches your wrist.

“You never answered my question,” he says. His gaze holds your own, deep and soulful and burning. Have his eyes always been that golden?

“Everything,” you say, the answer falling from your lips without a second thought. “I want you to do everything to me.”

His eyes fall to half-lidded, a sultry twist to his mouth. “Everything, cyare? That’s awfully broad. How am I supposed to pick?” 

Another shiver dances up your spine as goosebumps erupt all over your skin at his voice. Echo’s eyebrows twitch at your physiological response. 

“D’you like the sound of my voice, pretty little thing?” he asks, inflecting the words down, deeper, hotter.

Nodding, a more concrete idea of what you want crystallizes in your mind. “Love your voice, Echo. Can you— can you make me cum just by talking to me?”

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. “Kriff, yeah, baby. Whatever you want. Want to get off from me telling you everything I want to do to your gorgeous body?”

You whine, pleasurable heat pulsing through your core.

“Alright, baby.” He gestures toward the bed. “Get undressed and get comfy.” 

“What about you?” you ask. You’re already shucking your clothes, but pause when he fixes you with an inscrutable look.

“Oh no,” he says, “you asked for my voice. The suit stays on. Fitting, that you’d ask me to whisper filth to you, when I’m dressed as a siren.”

Inhaling a short breath in surprise, you merely blink at him. He chucks you under your chin with a wink, then glances down at your state of half-undress. Swallowing, you hurry to strip out of the rest of the now-too tight garments and clamber up onto the silky smooth sheets. You prop yourself up with a number of plush pillows. 

“Good,” Echo murmurs. He perches on the edge of the bed, one thick thigh crossed under the other, his hand supporting the way he leans. “Such a good listener.” 

The praise coils through your ears and settles in your lower belly, simmering with an intense, acute heat. You can only nod, at a loss for words.

“Sit on your hands for me, baby,” he instructs. “Can’t have you cheating, now can we?” 

Your chest heaves with anticipation as you shift, sliding your hands beneath your butt to trap them there. Echo’s eyes flicker a brighter gold. For a moment, he lets you sit there, core aching, skin flushed and sweat beginning to dew. At the apex of your thighs, your arousal throbs, demanding to be touched.

“Bet you feel so soft,” he says. The way he murmurs the words makes you think it’s more a thought that slipped out than an intentional statement, but the effect is the same: your nipples pebble as if inviting him to touch. He clears his throat and continues. “Nearly lost my mind out there when you pushed your ass against my dick. Nearly took you right there on the dancefloor.” 

“F-Fuck,” you grit out. His voice caresses your skin, a physical presence. “W-Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to put my vod’e to shame.” He chuckles. “Wanted you all to myself. Wanted to feel how you fall apart, just for me. Is that what you want, cyare? Gonna squirm for me?” 

As if by his request, you push your hips in his direction, silently begging. 

“Thought so,” he says. “Mm. So needy. I’m gonna make you cum just like this, and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk after, how’s that sound, gorgeous?”

“Yes, yes please, just keep talking,” you whine. The aching need in your core grows with each word he speaks, a spell weaving in the air around you, drawing your nerves along for the ride. 

“You felt so good against me out there,” he continues. “Warm and pliant and body fucking begging me to take you. Gonna make you feel so good, cyare. I’m gonna suck my mark into your neck, show everyone who makes you feel this good. Make sure they know whose cock was buried in you. Fuck, I bet you’re tight, bet you need a good fucking to loosen you up. That what you need, baby? Need to be fucked out?” 

You’re writhing at this point, hips jerking as if his words are physically touching you. “Y-Yes, stars, please!”

“Yeah, I know you need that.” 

You have enough awareness to catch movement in his lap—he’s fucking palming himself through his pants, and the sight draws a raw, cracking moan from your chest. His eyes bore into yours for a moment, an intense, glowing gold, and a jolt of pleasure rocks through you. 

“First I’d make you suck me off, get my dick all nice and wet. Your lips will look so good wrapped around me, kark. Don’t worry, I’d put my mouth on you, too. Tease you with my tongue until you’re begging for me to fuck you. 

“And then I’d slip into your tight hole—ngh, kriff—” He shudders, palm stilling over his crotch for a moment. “Make you scream for me, make you moan until your voice gives out. Then I’d make you cum again, all over my cock. Fuck, you’ll look so pretty when I fuck you like that, takin’ everything I give you.” 

Pleasure mounts in your body with every new word. The rough, raw edge to his voice only serves to rake tingling ecstasy over your entire body. In your belly, the knot of desire pulls tighter, tighter, tighter—you’re teetering on the precipice, ready to shatter at any moment. 

A sob wracks through your form. “Echo, please, need to cum!”

“I know, baby, I know you do,” he coos. “You wanna cum? Cum for me, pretty thing. Cum and then I’ll fuck you just like you need me to.” 

“Oh fuck—” Your moan chokes off into a strangled gasp as his command washes over you. All at once, the knotted core of need in your center snaps and unravels. Your back arches off the bed, hands scrabbling at the silk sheets for purchase as you cum, shouting incoherent praise to the room. Wave after wave breaks over you, each one drowning you in fresh pleasure.

Through it all, Echo murmurs sweet praise in your ear, his fingers finding purchase at your heated core. “That’s it, baby. Just like that, you’re doing so well. See? Promised you I’d make you cum, and now I’m gonna fuck you, okay, baby?”

Dimly, you register his words. Nodding, you think you beg for it—or maybe you’re just begging for the orgasm to keep going, for your body to keep convulsing and shuddering. Somewhere in the haze that begins to settle over your mind, you feel Echo’s hand grip your hip, holding your lower body still, and then he’s pushing into you, his cock slick with spit and your release.

You groan simultaneously. Walls fluttering around his thick length, you suck in lungfuls of air to steady yourself, the stretch a little painful but nevertheless immaculate. He’s so big; he’s everywhere, stuffed into your tight heat and filling your vision and caressing your flushed skin. 

“Kark,” he bites out. “Not gonna last long, cyare.” 

“S’okay,” you pant. “Please fuck me.” 

You don’t need to tell him twice. Snapping his hips against you, his balls slap your ass with every thrust, the erotic sound echoing in the small room. Gripping one of your thighs to his chest, he squeezes it as he drives his cock into you mercilessly, his jacket discarded and the rest of his clothes disheveled. All you can do is lie there and take it, keening brokenly. His cock grazes against that one spot deep in your heat that makes stars burst across your vision. Whining, you fist the sheets to ground yourself. 

“W-Where—” 

“Paint me,” you gasp. “Want your cum on me.”

He pulls out immediately, his cock throbbing. Ribbons of hot, white cum splatter over your chest and tummy. Eyes locked together, you have to fight to keep your own open to catch the way that his face twists with bliss as he cums. But he makes it difficult, working his hand over your center to draw out your second orgasm.

You spasm under his touch, weakly pushing his hand away in overstimulation. Core locked up with tight pleasure, it takes you several long moments to drift back down. Heart pounding, chest heaving, you glance up at Echo with a tired grin. 

He chuckles. “Holy kriff.” 

“You can say that again,” you say, huffing a laugh.

His cum has begun to dry on your skin; you glance around for a towel. Echo retrieves his jacket where he must have tossed it on the other end of the bed and gently wipes your skin clean.

“Thanks,” you murmur, too blissed out to care that he’s ruining a perfectly good suit. 

He shrugs out of the other garments then collapses on the bed next to you. Tangling your fingers together, you smile lazily at one another. Distantly, the music of the party reaches you, but you’re in no rush. 

“So,” you murmur. 

“So,” he echoes. His voice has returned to its normal gruff timbre—still incredibly sexy, but no longer magically enhanced. 

You study his eyes for a moment, also returned to their normal state. With a teasing hum, you nudge him. “What happened to all the other things you mentioned? Marking me, going down on me?” 

He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got...impatient.”

You laugh, a genuine, belly laugh that makes him chuckle, too. 

“Maybe...” You trail off, biting your lip. “Maybe we can get dinner sometime, and then we can try those.” 

Humming, he nuzzles your neck. “I’d love that.”

Ragu list: @the-hexfiles @thorsterstrudle @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @dreamie411 @bobaprint @originalcollectionartistry @imarvelatthestars (if you'd like to be added or removed, click here!)

#tbb echo x reader #echo x reader #echo x gn!reader #echo x you #rhiwrites #midnight masquerade #mdfm hallowkink 23 #monster fucker #siren!echo #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader

[jenoshub]

Você me dá muito calor - Jisung Park

[N/A]: palavras bem baixo calão!, Dominação, apelidos sexuais (putinha, vagabunda...), Muita provocação, sexo sem proteção (por favor, não façam isso), um pouco de breeding kink, "dominação", humilhação.

[N/A]: gente eu sumi igual pó! Mas prometo que vou voltar a ser ativa, se divertam!

Jisung estava sentado com as pernas abertas no sofá. Ele jogava seus jogos de loop e se estressava sozinho quando perdia algo.

Você estava com um blusão branco que era praticamente transparente e deixava à vista seu sutiã preto.

"Achei que estivesse dormindo…". Ele diz assim que te vê descendo as escadas e indo pegar um copo de água

"Digo o mesmo. Você chegou faz muito tempo?" Você se apoia no mármore gelado da cozinha americana, olhando para jisung "me desculpe não ter te esperado, eu dormi sentada…"

"Não se preocupe, amor…" Ele tomba a cabeça e fecha os olhos, havia perdido no jogo, novamente. "Bem eu cheguei faz pouco tempo, te vi dormindo mas não quis interromper, fiz um chá pra mim e vim jogar um pouco…" ele te olha.

"Você não está cansado?" Coloco o copo na pia e volto para o mármore.

"Um pouco, mas aguento ficar mais um tempo acordado". Ele se levanta e se apoia no mármore junto com você. "Quer fazer algo?"

"Hm…" Você pensa: talvez ficar agarradinhos e beber um chá bem quent-

"Quer transar?" Ele foi mais rápido e certeiro. Deixe a ideia de café e abraços quentinhos de lado! O pau dele te macetando era a melhor opção.

"Hm.." você pensa novamente. Queria dizer 'sim', ajoelhar e mamar igual a uma puta desesperada, mas estava confusa… jisung ama te maltratar na cama, mas… ele estava cansado, e se ele quisesse algo fofo?

"Se quiser eu posso te comer até te deixar vermelhinha…" ele sai do balcão e vai até você "você quer?" Ele chega bem perto "quer que o Jiji te macete até tua bucetinha estiver dolorida e cheia de porra?" Se aproxima mais "você ama, não ama? Ama quando eu falo isso pra você!" Te agarra fraco pelo pescoço "ama como minha aura de inocente e puro só vai para o palco, e quando eu estou com você, a única aura que eu quero sentir é a do nosso sexo por toda essa porra de apartamento!"

Você suspira, fecha os olhos e apenas se lembra de todas as malditas vezes que jisung se fodia forte, te batia, te fazia chorar e te humilhava na cama.

"Eu quero!" Fala certeira, fala com vontade. "Me fode! Me come gostoso por favor!" Coloca as duas mãos no ombro dele "me deixa abertinha jisung! Me deixa como todas as outras vezes!"

"E como eu te deixo das outras vezes?" Ele te puxa pelo pescoço enquanto sente sua saliva passando lentamente pela garganta

"Hm…" burra. Não responde, só geme.

"Como?" Aperta o local, te deixa boba e sedenta por ele.

"Jisung…" Burra de novo!

"Responde!" Aperta novamente, mas sem resultados. "Eu vou te dar uma dica, mesmo que não precise. O jiji te deixa bambinha, não deixa?"

"Uhum…" só sabe responder isso. O corpo mole, a buceta molhada, os olhos revirando, os seios doloridos querendo atenção.

"O jiji te deixa toda bagunçada, não deixa?"

"Ai~..." Ele aperta de novo "deixa~..."

"Ótimo." Ele te solta "você 'tá bem esquecida, não acha?"

"Você 'tava me apertando, não tinha como raciocinar na hora…"

"Aprenda a se controlar" ele retira a camiseta "ou eu vou te fazer lembrar de tudo o que eu faço com você."

"Tudo bem, eu lembro…"

"Ops, o tempo acabou! Parece que a putinha do jisung vai ter que aprender novamente o que acontece com ela" ele joga brincando, desgracado.

"Oi? Mas nem começou direito!" Você levanta o tom

"Você se esqueceu disso também? Porra garota! Esqueceu que enquanto eu estiver falando alto, você só vai ajoelhar e me mamar, puta desgraçada!"

"Clichê, jisung. Cliche." Você ainda provocava

"Clichê?" Ele te joga no sofá "quero ver a merda de clichê quando meu pau estiver te deixando estúpida de novo!" Ele ergue sua camisa "quero só ver quando eu colocar toda minha porra nessa bucetinha e te engravidar! Você vai gostar? Vai gostar de estar carregando um bebê nosso? Um bebê que saiu de sua desobediência por ser uma burra esquecida?"

"Se ele for igual a você, não vou gostar" colega, você brinca com fogo.

"Hm…" ele ri soprano "você me dá um tesão do caralho! Tu me dá muito calor" Chupa rapidamente os dedos do meio e o anelar para enfiar na sua bucetinha "gosta? É claro que gosta! Ama rebolar nos meus dedos e depois no meu pau!" Ele movimenta lento e fundo os dedos "quero ver você rebolando gostoso nos meus dedos e depois roubar igual a alguém virgem no meu pau. Fica tão cansada que além de não saber mais rebolar, fica gemendo igual a uma cadela!"

Não era clichê. Era só uma rápida mudança de Jisung puro para Jisung puto.

"Me come logo vai jiji!" Você rebola rápido nos dedos, dando sinal que quer mais. "Maceta gostoso aqui" bate dois dedos no clitóris "deixa ele pulsando amor! Soca até ficar bem arrombada"

"Não se preocupe, eu vou. Mas antes você sabe o que eu faço." Ele se aproxima e você apoia as mãos nas costas dele "eu quero te ver se humilhando pelos meus dedos! Quero te ver de quatro nesse chão bem abertinha me deixando meter enquanto te encho de tapas. Eu sei que você admira eles no espelho depois! Clássico de uma puta que quer ser virgenzinha todos os dias só pra poder ter a sensação do meu pau de novo"

Você geme arrastado, revira os olhos. Porra os dedos dele além de grandes eram tão habilidosos, eram rápidos e jisung ainda fazia movimento de tesouras, te deixando louquinha

"Goza minha princesa, goza pro jisung vai" fala baixo e manhoso "deixa meus dedos bem melados e prontos pra te fazer engasgar antes de abocanhar meu pau, vagabunda."

Você não escutava o que ele dizia. A mente já estava embaçada, estava repleta por lembranças de vocês fudendo no chão enquanto os vizinhos debaixo batiam no teto pedindo para pararem de 'pular no chão" mas é claro que você não estava pulando no chão, estava pulando do pau grosso de Park Jisung.

#nct fanfic #nct smut pt br #smut pt br #jenoshub #pt br #park jisung #nct dream #nct dream smut #jisung smut #jisung x y/n #jisung x reader #jisung fanfic #jisung imagines #nctzen

[clone-anon-after-dark]

Slowly (Wrecker x M!Reader)

There are two versions of this story. The F!Reader version is available here.

Word Count: 1267

Warnings: NSFW, Minors DNI, some implied size difference, ass grabbing, unprotected PiA (reader giving), blowjobs (both giving), handjob (reader giving), alludes to the events in TBB S3E4, aftercare

A/N: Wrecker has been holding it together for Hunter while they search for Omega. Now that she and Crosshair are back, tensions are somewhat high as they figure out how to be a squad and family again. You decide it’s time someone took care of Wrecker. Established relationship. 

You met up with Wrecker when he and Hunter finally returned to Pabu. He was clearly pleased they’d found Omega, or rather, she found them. He had some mixed feelings about Crosshair being back, but you knew he missed his brother and despite the hurt, he still felt happy.

“Stay with me tonight,” you suggested. 

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” he replied with a grin. 

You both bid Hunter, Omega, and Crosshair goodnight as they got settled. You walked hand-in-hand to your small home. It felt cozy, but Wrecker was a bit of a mess. He and Hunter hadn’t really paid attention to any self-care while they darted around the galaxy. He admitted that with the stress of it all, he hadn’t really slept much in the last few weeks. You helped him undress and threw his clothes in the washer while he got in the shower. You joined him not long after and worked him into a lather.  He groaned as you tried to massage out some of the kinks in his back. He gave you a tired smile and kissed you, his big hands reaching around to grab your ass.  You looked down. As if you needed to do that to notice what was happening to both your bodies.

“See something you like, big guy?”

“Always,” he replied as you turned off the water.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight if you’re too tired,” you reassured as you dried each other off.

“I know,” he said. “But I missed ya and this shower’s been invigoratin’.”

“Then let me take care of you, Wrecker.”

He blushed and rubbed the back of his head and nodded almost shyly.

“How about you get comfortable in bed and I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer?” you asked.

“I can take care of the clothes,” he insisted.

“You’ve been doing so much,” you replied. “Let me. You get ready.”

You took your time with the laundry. You knew he was particular about how he got prepared when he was on the receiving end. He greeted you with a grin as you walked into the bedroom. He was laying back on his favorite pillow, a soft blanket covering him from the waist down. It didn’t cover much though.

You turned the lights down a bit so that the room filled with a warm glow. Wrecker relaxed into the mattress further while you crawled into bed next to him. His body was always on the warmer side and he tossed the blankets further down the bed. You took your clothes off and he grinned as he watched. His strong hands traced up and down your body as his lips devoured yours. You were slow and deliberate as you kissed your way across his jaw and down his neck. Wrecker let out a soft grunt as you left a little hickey in the crook of his neck.  You kissed down each arm and smiled softly as you kissed the palm of each hand. 

“You’re almost teasing,” he said, pulling you closer so he could kiss your lips. “Lemme at least taste that sweet cock of yours for a bit.”

“If you insist.”

Wrecker chuckled as you kneeled next to him. He leaned down and took your length in his mouth and squeezed your ass. Everything about Wrecker was strong and that included his ability to suck as he slowly bobbed his head, his chin brushing your balls each time. You took in a deep breath and traced the scars on his head. You were getting too close too fast.

“I don’t wanna finish yet,” you managed.

Wrecker pulled away and smiled at you.

“That’s alright,” he said. “Want ya to come in my ass anyway.”

You grinned and lightly pushed his shoulders encouraging him to lay back again.  You grabbed the lube out of the nightstand drawer and worked his tight circle of muscle, making sure he would be plenty slick. He pulled his legs up a bit further and let his knees fall back at the feeling. You kissed his thigh before taking the head of his cock in your mouth. You barely take half of him before he hit the back of your throat. You did your best to relax your jaw and felt him reach forward to caress your cheek with his thumb. 

“Feels so good,” he moaned.

You kept going, fingers that had worked his hole now wrapping around his cock and slowly pumping him. Wrecker let his head fall back and eyes close at the feeling. 

“You need me to fuck you, Wrecker?” you asked.

“The sooner the better,” he replied. 

You lined yourself up and gently pushed inside him. Wrecker always loved that feeling. Nice and slow. His legs relaxed and you rubbed the back of his thighs as you fucked him. Wrecker let out soft groans at the sensation. You found a nice leisurely pace and hummed at the sight and feeling of your cock moving in and out of him. He reached to stroke himself in time to your hips as you fondled his balls and continued to fuck him.

“Aww kriff,” he let out. “Close.”

“Wanna see you explode,” you said.

Several strokes later and Wrecker grunted, painting his stomach and chest with cum. The sight was nearly enough to send you to bliss. Your balls tightened as they bounced against his ass with each thrust and you came inside him.

“Love watchin’ you like that,” he said as he looked at you fondly.

You eased out of him and reached for a towel. You cleaned both your bodies up, but Wrecker had ideas for a bit more thorough job.

“Come here, love,” he said. He picked you up and carried you to the shower again. “Let’s rinse off.” 

He turned on the water and you each took in a deep breath as the warm water hit you. Wrecker gently traced your body and his with a washcloth. You got out and dried each other off again and he decided to carry you to bed. You pulled on some underwear and tossed him his favorite boxer briefs. They were covered in hearts and fireworks. He liked keeping them here. Something only you and he would ever see and made with the softest fabric. 

You laid down together. While Wrecker was usually the big spoon, you laid on your back first. He rested his head on your chest and held onto you. Your arms laid over his shoulders and you kissed the top of his head. 

You rubbed his shoulders and murmured, “Love you.”

“Love you too,” he replied. He gave you a gentle squeeze. You held each other in the darkened room. You saw a clear night sky and stars peering through the window. You always looked at them while he was gone and knew he was somewhere among them.

You were brought back to the moment by Wrecker kissing your chest. You looked down and smiled at him. He took your hand in his own and kissed the back of it.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” he asked.

“Just looking at the stars. Glad you’re home.”

“Me too.”

You kissed again. He laid his head on your chest again and you rested your cheek on the top of it. Eventually Wrecker moved to spoon you. He knew laying on top of you resulted in at least one of your limbs falling asleep eventually. He wanted to feel you tucked against him. It wasn’t long before you were both sleeping soundly and Wrecker was finally able to rest with you in his arms.

Tagging: @sideofhorny @dukeoftheblackstar @staycalmandhugaclone

#wrecker anon #wrecker x reader #wrecker x m!reader #wrecker x amab reader #tbb wrecker #tbb wrecker x reader #tbb wrecker x m reader #tbb wrecker x amab reader #tbb fanfiction #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb #reader insert

[xuxuzinhoo]

FILIPE RET (me enforca)

Avisos: Filipe ret (MEU MARRENTO) × leitora • adultério • breeding kink • breath play • dirty talk • desuso de preservativo • breath play • creampie • degradação • dumbfiction •

Filipe ret... me enforcaa, me arranhaa me botaa

___________________________________________

feita no ajuste do seu quadril, exclusivamente para você. A saia jeans curta com pregas a deixava tão apetitosa, o ajuste do bumbum quase o fazia escapar em cada passo e molejo que seus pés entorneados pelo salto simples faziam no chão de porcelanato da mansão que abrigava a festa.

Nem seu nariz empinado ou a maquiagem disfarçavam a vontade cruel que seu olho tinha de mirar no homem nem tanto distante de você. Mesmo cercado de pessoas sabia que ele te olhava, sentia queimar no corpo, os olhos presos no seu piercing de borboletas cravejados em diamantes que ele mesmo mandou fazer.

Era a princesa dele, e nem por isso deixava de ser a puta. Te dariam termos piores se ele fizesse o que mais desejava naquela noite; cercar os braços tatuados pela tua cintura cheio de possessão e marra, andar com você pela festa e te apresentar a todos como a mulher dele. Mas não poderia, e o motivo se apresenta a qualquer um que se dispor de olhar a mão esquerda com o grande anel dourado preso no anelar.

Você era o segredo dele. E ele era seu. Você devassa, poderia talvez tirar um tempo para sentir culpa se não fosse aquele rosto preso entre suas pernas chupando tão bem.

Até sente boba ao perder a noção das ações quando aquele sorriso safado no rosto seguido daquele gestinho sugestivo com a cabeça apontando para um corredor a direita onde ele foi e te esperou entrar no banheiro.

Naquele dia o bom senso pedia para ele segurar o desejo mas ver você daquele jeito chegava ser um pecado, não te marcar. Se embolaram tanto que perderam a noção do tempo, dos seus amigos te procurando, da esposa do homem (que te metia)se encontrava na festa ligando ouvindo a caixa postal no telefone em resposta. E o telefone dele no mudo jogado pelo chão ao lado do seu salto. Nem mesmo o relevo da aliança presa entre os dedos da mão que apertava seu pescoço te faziam lembrar o contexto da situação ou sentir um pouco de culpa.

Nunca ia sentir um tantinho de amargura "Filipe soca tudo vai" empina a bunda com esforço e sente uma das mãos segurando firme no quadril "me aperta com vontade" não tinha gozado e as pernas só tremelicavam.

"vai deixar eu sujar tudo né cadela? Não vai?"

Como sentir culpa desse jeito? Sentiria ausência da sensação até a morte enquanto foder com ele fosse tão gostoso, as lágrimas de tesão escorriam e aguava o teu rosto como a sua buceta faltava pingar pelas coxas.

E aí ele era caos no teu corpo, te preensando mais contra a pia do banheiro, prendendo os olhos no seu reflexo do espelho na frente. Sabendo que não aguentava tanto pau sem magoar o buraquinho e mesmo assim não conseguia parar de pedir por mais.

"vou deixar essa barriguinha toda estufada de porra e vou continuar te comendo assim todo dia princesa" perpetuou no seu ouvido antes de jogar tudo dentro de você, catar o telefone no chão e digitar alguma desculpa esfarrapada para a esposa.

"vou deixar minha esposa em casa, mas passo na sua hoje tá linda? É bom tú sair logo e me esperar lá, vou te tacar pica a noite toda."

#filipe ret #ptbr #aguei #smut pt br #fanfic #rap nacional #preferidosdaxuxu

[phynoma]

Oh hi!

I'm Phyn! I write things. I'm not going to get into a bunch of identity stuff, but I'm queer, I'm an adult, and I like writing queer adult stuff. Mostly horror (see: queer) and absurdity (see: the world)

I have degrees in english, theology, and more theology, which just means I have a bunch of experience doing critical thinking and analysis of storytelling, and enough imposter syndrome that I don't know how to put that on a resume.

FANDOMS!

If you're already following me it's probably for Pillars of Eternity, TMA, or LOTR/Silmarillion. I cycle through hyperfixations every few years. It's still TMA/TMAGP right now. You can find my TMAGP sideblog here, where I just collect art.

Other things I like: Fallen London, everything by Pia Foxhall/not_poignant, re:dracula, SILT VERSES, Rivers of London, Murderbot, Critical Role, Saga, Wicked+Divine, anything by Neil Gaiman, I Am in Eskew, norse myths, egyptian myths, jewish myths, the dragonlance books (don't judge me they were foundational), pretty much everything Mike Flanagan makes, and much much more

WRITING!

I'm on ao3 as Phynoma! What do I write? Well. I write in-depth explorations of characters placed in harrowing situations which draw out the very inmost parts of their vulnerabilities and--

Smut. I write smut, okay?

Almost all of these fics are explicit and PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD mind the tags, I am *very* careful with my tagging for good reason!!!!

HERE YA GO, YA FILTHY ANIMALS!

The Magnus Archives:

I mentioned this is my current fixation, right?

an extant form of life: pollen fic! You could say, maybe, that the Consuming AU uses pollen tropes, but I'm counting this as my first-ever pollen fic. Jon/Tim, Jon/Martin, maybe Jon/Tim/Martin, we'll see if Sasha gets thrown in there. Ongoing.

Hey, Jude: A hurt/comfort fic about what happened after Jon shook Jude Perry's hand. Jon & Georgie & the kindness of strangers (not those strangers) Oneshot.

The Consuming AU: My pride and joy. My baby. I started this halfway through listening to TMA the first time and finished the original fic in about two months in time for the Rusty Quill Big Bang of 2023. Canon is basically the same, with the addition of "what if there was a Entity of Hunger, (fear of) Intimacy, and Codependence?" Also Jon is turning into a succubus. Main fic is complete at a little over 100k words. Sometimes I add one-shots to the series.

~Incredible bookbinding done by @bluejayblueskies HERE ~Art of human-looking Rhia (by me) HERE and commission of eldritch angel Rhia by @isbergillustration HERE ~Commission of Naadia by @dcartcorner HERE

Kittens & Kink AU: Fluffy Somewhere Else one-shots. Cat play. Mostly nonsexual kink. Oliver/Jon/Martin. Ongoing, until I get bored of it, basically.

Pillars of Eternity:

The In-Between Series: A series of fics following the relationship of Watcher Mirad and Aloth Corfiser, ten years or so after the events of Deadfire. The world of Eora is ripe for a new cataclysm, and these two elves are trying to finally have the relationship they've been dancing around for two decades. Ongoing, on hiatus as my hyperfixation is elsewhere. I do plan to finish it, though.

Moments: same universe and characters as above, focusing more on events that happen in canon-- ie, during gameplay. Complete.

Faetales:

Mat & Kal: Fae AU: You know how sometimes you keep writing characters and put them through a blender so many times that they just become something completely new? That's this AU. Mateo and Makalo are two ancient fae beings trapped in the human world during the events of The Ice Plague (by not_poignant) who become bound by each others' lives and deaths. They hate each other, they love each other, they're in weird psychosexual sadistic codependency with each other. They're a cat-person and a snake-person. I'm not a furry but I like some of their ideas, okay? Series complete.

See commissioned art of Mat & Kal by @shojoshark HERE

The Silmarillion:

Mistakes Were Made: Imma be real, this is just straight up torture porn. Sauron is punished by Morgoth after the loss of the Silmaril to Beren & Luthien. Basically, I was annoyed by all the fluffy Angbang fics I was reading and wanted to depict them in all their horrifying, codependent glory. Complete.

Cost of Surrender: I read a really good fic about what it took for Mairon to grovel/debase himself to Eonwe to gain his freedom and I took it a bit further. Complete.

Good Omens:

the beautiful and the fitting: pretty sure the title of this is a quote from St. Augustine, too. I almost didn't include this one because I don't even remember what it's about. Fluffy sex times with nonsexual beings, I think. I started writing it because Good Omens is one of my favorite books, but tbh the fandom for the show exhausts me and I don't know if I'll come back to this. Abandoned, probably.

#writing masterpost #fic list #about me #phyn writes #sorry to all the folks I tagged I just want you to be loved #on the off chance anyone actually reads this #long post #pinned post

[idollete]

https://twitter.com/daylightkuku/status/1765599236802990348?s=46&t=Z6d1OgITEzGpFHKNw7bl3Q

o TAMANHO deste homem… era na cama no sofá na pia da cozinha no banheiro na varanda na parede no chão no elevador na penteadeira de cabeça pra baixo de costas deitada de 4 com uma perna pra cima sentando em qualquer buraco papai e mamãe todas posições do kamasutra de manhã de tarde pré ceia pós ceia de noite de madrugada no chuveiro na banheira na cadeira

[ size kink going absolutely KDKSOSKKSNAK)MAKXNSOSN$;$)$!$9;$8$(#8#!#8#("9*!#(@9#!#8#!@8@!@!#(9[¢=£MAKSJSOANAOANAJjo@?#(*!*+";@)@)@9§}¢✓¢§%[¢∆~§¢[€™`§¢}¢]¢✓`✓€§¢✓ right now ]

e esse vídeo ainda me deu outro pensamento que é o do esteban!professor todo charmosinho dando uma aula e a leitora só consegue pensar no quão grande ele é, principalmente quando ele vira de costas pra anotar alguma coisa no quadro 💭

#alexa play teacher's pet by melanie martinez #esteban kukuriczka #papo de divas

[samspenandsword]

Kinktober 2022/23 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Summary: Kinktober Day 9 — Double Penetration with Boba Fett and Din Djarin Pairing: Boba Fett/Reader/Din Djarin; fem!reader with no mentions of her appearance. Rating: Explicit, 18+ (Younglings, foundlings, and cadets BEGONE!) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, smut; Double penetration, unprotected PIV, unprotected PIA (PRACTICE SAFE SEX), creampie, breast and nipple play, pred/prey kink, dirty talk, mention of filming and taking photos, mention of oral (m and f!receiving), objectification if you squint, dom/sub dynamics, mention of a safeword and the color system, polyamory, Din’s helmet comes off, porn with plot because I’m physically incapable of not including it, language.  Word Count: 3.6k

Sam's Pen and Sword Kinktober 2023 Taglist Form

You were used to staring down a target. You were used to being stared down. Whether you met their eyes head on or were staring into the visor of a helmet, or the bulk of a pair of goggles, the stare down was a tool you had long mastered. What you weren't used to, however, was how he made you feel like prey under his stare. You were a bounty hunter, and a fucking good one. You were the hunter. The predator. You stared others down and they were the ones who broke.

But this... With him...

The T of his hud was familiar to you. You knew the sight and weight of it better than you knew yourself. And it never failed to press into you every single fucking time. It always pressed into you and pinned you down like a trapped bounty who'd just come to the realization that there was no way out. The black of the hud was as good as binders on your wrists, and the shine of the beskar was as good as carbonite, the way it froze you in place.

And when he lifted his helmet, it only got worse. The shade of his brown eyes was darkened and blown wide with lust as he stared you down, hungry and ready to fucking pounce.

You had never felt more like prey than you did when he stared at you. And because it was him, you fucking loved it.

But the man behind you was quick to remind you that he was there too, and he had you in his grasp. He could do with you as he wished. And right now, he was the one who had you pinned down, your back plastered along his thick chest, your legs spread wide by his thighs. Spread open for the warrior in front of you.

He had you held in his strong hands, grasping your hips and holding you down with his thick cock encased in your ass.

"I think Djarin likes this sight," Boba chuckled in your ear. He thrusted his hips just the tiniest bit, but it was enough to make you gasp as his cock stretched you. "Maybe I should set my helmet up to record this one day. Send it to him so he can remember what he's missing on long hunts."

You couldn't move, and even if you wanted to squirm or twitch or thrust your hips, Boba wouldn't have allowed it. His strength held you firmly in place, and you were unable to do anything but lay there on his chest and feel the stretch of him in your ass. You tried your absolute best not to moan, or squirm, or give any indication that you liked the idea he'd so flippantly teased both you and Din with. Because you were not a needy partner. You weren't!

. . .

Okay, you were. And even with Boba buried deep inside you, you could see the tenting of Din's pants, and you wanted him too. With these men, nothing was ever enough. They were never enough. Everything they did to you, whether it was fucking your throat until your voice was hoarse, or pounding your cunt so hard you could barely stand, or eating you so good you literally squirted on their face, giving them even more to dive into, it was never fucking enough.

You and Boba had known each other since you were teenagers. Practically kids. You both had been forced to grow up and fight and scrape and kick and hunt before you were barely teenagers. And by the time you were adults, you both had made names for yourselves as some of the best bounty hunters in the galaxy.

You'd met Boba Fett when you were still young. He was a bit older than you, and already renowned through the Outer Rim, and you'd swiped a bounty out from right under his feet.

He'd been planning to kill you for it when he finally tracked you down, but upon meeting you and seeing someone not terribly younger than he was, he let you off with a warning to never fucking do that again.

And who were you to deny yourself, and him, that sort of challenge?

It had become a game to you both. You'd swipe his bounties, he'd track you down and threaten you. Then he'd swipe your bounties, and you'd retaliate by knocking him on his ass in a fight. And after about a decade of back and forth and skirting around each other and taunts and having honest-to-god fun with it, he'd fucked you for the first time.

The game continued. But after that, any time you stole a job of his and he caught you, he fucked you so hard he knew you'd never forget it. And any time you beat his ass, even with that beskar of his, he let you pin him down in Slave 1 and swallow his cock until he physically couldn't cum anymore.

You'd been devastated by the news of his death. Of all the people you'd thought would fall, Boba Fett had never been one of them.

You'd thrown yourself back into the work. Bounty hunting was a profession that never ran dry. There was always a bail jumper to find. A war criminal to track down. A murderer to bring to justice. A thief to steal and lock away. A missing person to locate.

That's when you'd met Din. Or Mando, as you'd known him at the time.

It had been hard to work with him at first, and yet it had been some sort of selfish relief for you. The sight of a figure in beskar had been both painful and sweet. But Mando had been so different from Boba that it honestly made it easier for you that first time you'd teamed up. When you'd both been issued the same puck, rather than grapple over the bounty, Mando had offered to share it. It had taken you off guard, having never met a bounty hunter willing to share before. You'd ended up agreeing just to see if he'd follow through with it.

And he had.

Mando had impressed you. He was just as competent and fierce as Boba had been. Imposing and strong and downright scary when he wanted to be. But he had also just been so polite, and borderline soft-spoken. Where Boba had always been happy to go back and forth with you, Mando was content to simply listen. He could be a painfully quiet man, and it was only after almost a year of knowing each other and occasionally working together that Din had let some of his deadpan, dry humor show.

And by then, you had fallen for him.

Just like you had fallen for Boba.

You'd never been brave enough to tell Boba how you felt. But with Mando, you became terrified of making that same mistake. And though it had taken a while to find the words, you'd eventually told Mando the truth.

He'd whispered his name to you. Din. And fucked you so sweetly it had brought tears to your eyes.

He'd rarely fucked you that sweetly since.

You eventually shared everything with him. Your past, your past with Boba (the fact that Din hadn't known who he was had been both the most hilarious and baffling thing you'd ever heard), and he'd accepted it. And proceeded to blindfold you and eat you out until you cried from overstimulation as a thank you for thrusting him.

So when Boba had showed up on Tython, not only saying that he'd survived a sarlacc but looking like it too, it had been a shock to both you and Din.

A shock that turned into a slightly awkward reunion, then a startlingly easy, powerful team-up, then a friendship, then a friendship full of tension.

Until Din had forced all three of you to acknowledge the change. And to either embrace it or let it pass by.

The three of you had thoroughly embraced it.

Which led you to now, with you impaled on Boba's cock, naked and dripping, and practically drooling at the sight of Din.

"I think our girl wants something," Boba observed dryly. He thrusted his hips just the tiniest bit again, and you had to bite your lip not to make a sound.

"Then she should use her words," Din responded. His voice rasped with lust at the sight before him. A glorious sight. A tempting sight.

"Hear that?" Boba rumbled into your ear. You craned your neck back, craving his touch. It made him chuckle and press a quick kiss to your shoulder. "Use your words."

It took all you had to unclench your jaw, swallowing the moan that automatically wanted to sound. "... Please... Want you, Din..."

Din nearly groaned at your voice and need. You looked so good like this, spread eagle before him, offered to him, your second hole stuffed full, blossoming and stretching around Boba's thick cock. Your breasts were bare and nipples puffy with need. Your neck stretched into a tantalizing curve, and your mouth was open with pleasure and want. Din could see you trembling a little, kept torturously in place by Boba's strength when all you wanted was to be wrecked.

Din wasn't able to deny you anything, but he couldn't help teasing you a little longer.

He couldn't help teasing you both.

"Sounds like you're not enough for our girl, Fett."

Your mouth went dry while your cunt gushed at the words, but all Boba did was chuckle.

"Careful, Djarin. Or I'll make you watch for a week."

You weren't sure if that was more of a punishment for you or Din, but neither of you liked the idea of that.

"That's what I thought. Now get over here and help me ruin our girl."

This time, you couldn't hide the moan those words forced out of you. And Din needed no further encouragement.

Boba simply chuckled again.

Only when he was completely bare did Din finally approach. You swallowed hard at the sight of him, from the sinew of his thighs to the fluffiness of his hair, from the hungry gleam in his eyes to the scars decorating his body, from the predatory gait of his steps, to the dark hair on his chest, leading all the way down to his swollen cock, bouncing with every step he took.

Din climbed onto the bed, leaning over you and making your breath hitch.

Just in time for him to kiss you. Softly. Tenderly. And you couldn't help smiling into it.

"Okay, cyar'ika?" he asked.

"With you home, how could I not be?" you said.

Din smiled too, pressing another quick kiss to your lips.

"Going soft on us, Djarin?" Boba quipped behind you. You smothered a giggle. Din had always had a measure of softness in his love that Boba didn't, and you were endlessly amused at how Boba continued to pretend he didn't like it.

Good thing both you and Din knew better.

"Just for that, I'm not kissing you," Din shot back, exchanging a grin with you.

You couldn't see it, but you just knew Boba's jaw had ticked.

"Get to work, Djarin," Boba just said instead. "Our girl's a little too coherent for my tastes."

Din looked at you, a smirk playing on his lips. He shrugged a little. "You heard the boss."

You scoffed, about to mention that last you checked, Din was technically Mand'alor, but Din's fingers had suddenly found your cunt, swiping through your slick and thoroughly silencing you.

Din groaned at how wet you were, his cock instantly twitching at the feel of your juice on his fingers.

"How long has she been like this?" Din asked Boba.

"Is our girl never not wet and ready for us?" Boba replied.

You whimpered a little, eyes squeezing closed and cheeks hot with mortification and arousal.

Din chuckled darkly in agreement, slick fingers coming up to touch your face. You opened your eyes automatically at the touch, and the feel of your own wetness smearing on your skin.

"What do you want, cyar'ika?" Din asked.

The locking of your eyes with his made it hard to breathe, let alone speak. But you forced yourself, swallowing hard to wet your mouth.

"Want you, Din," you said, somewhere between a whisper and a plea. "Want you inside me."

"Want me to fuck this cunt?" he said, voice just as quiet as yours had been. His slick fingers slipped into your mouth, and you swirled the flavor of yourself on your tongue. "Want me to fuck your cunt while Fett fucks your ass?" You whimpered around his fingers. "Want us to ruin you?"

Din's fingers popped from your mouth, and you gasped. "Yes!" you breathed, nearly begged. "Yes, please!"

"Such good manners," Boba praised. His thighs still locked your legs in place, keeping them nice and wide open for Din. "But be careful what you wish for."

Din's smile was just as dark as Boba's words.

Din didn't even bother slipping his fingers inside you to do more than gather your wetness, spreading it on his cock with a groan. Your eyes never left him, following the strokes eagerly. Your breasts heaved with every anticipatory breath you took, and Din pressed a kiss to the swell of one as he climbed back over you.

"Remember the safeword?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Say it," Boba said.

"Ge'tal."

Mando'a, for "red."

"Good," Boba said. His hands left your hips for the first time, stroking up to your waist. "Now, be a good girl and hold still."

You gulped, trembling with anticipation as Din lined himself up, and slowly pushed in.

The stretch was incredible, and though you'd done this before, taken both your partners together, it still choked the air out of you every single time. Din's soothing voice reminded you to breathe in, and Boba's hands stroked your skin soothingly.

When Din was fully seated inside you, you all groaned loudly. Din would never, never be used to the feel of you, how tight you squeezed him. How wondrously you fit him, that perfect cunt of yours practically sucking him inside you. Nor would he ever get used to the rub of Boba's cock, just barely separated from his by a thin wall of skin.

Boba groaned at the weight of you on top of him, a weight he absolutely loved. And the sight of the blissed expression on Din's face as he sheathed himself inside you. And the squeeze of you around him, Din's cock making you just that much tighter.

And you — Boba had gotten what he wanted. You were barely coherent. How could you be? Both men knew your body as intimately as they knew their own, as they knew each other's. These men could wreck and work you like no one else ever could, and with them both stretching and stuffing you full, working together to ruin you in a way they knew you loved, you were practically done for already.

Din smirked a little. The visual of you like this — impaled upon him and Boba, so thoroughly cockdumb — was a visual that he planned to live with forever.

And with a tiny nod from Boba, he slowly pulled out. And as he did so, Boba raised you by your waist, lifting you off of his cock.

You moaned so beautifully as they did.

And you moaned so beautifully again when Boba sank you back down and Din thrust back into your cunt.

The rhythm started slow. It usually did, the men letting you relax into the feeling of taking both of them. You always took them so gorgeously, so perfectly, and with a whisper of "Vorpan," Mando'a for "green," they knew you were ready.

The moans you had tried so hard to swallow earlier fully escalated into cries of ecstasy as your partners pounded into your holes. At first in sync, then in an oscillating rhythm that meant you were never without a cock inside you. As Din withdrew, Boba thrust in, and as Boba relaxed his thrusting hips and thighs, Din speared into you. You registered their voices, both encouraging and praising and moaning with pleasure, but none of the words truly made it through the garble of bliss clouding your entire being.

A sharp little yank on your nipple from Boba made you yelp. It brought your focus to the words being said. And you realized they actually weren't talking to you at all.

"Listen to that cunt," Boba was saying. His chest rippled against your back, and he gave your nipple a soothing little rub.

Din was braced over you, encasing your body as he worked in and out of you. His lip curled up as he ground out, "Best cunt in the galaxy."

You whined between them, listening to the lewd squelching of your own arousal as Din soaked himself in it. Your hips twitched with each new wave of slick that gushed out of you and spilled down to pool over Boba's girth. You felt so overwhelmed, stuffed absolutely full and stretched to your limits, and yet it wasn't enough.

With Din and Boba, it was never fucking enough.

And as Din and Boba worked in and out of you, trading dirty little comments about your cunt and ass and the bounce of your tits, about their cockdumb little sleeve, about how good you looked stuffed full, about how you weren't going to be able to walk tomorrow, about how your greedy little holes couldn't get enough of them, and how maybe they should both fuck your cunt next time, or both fuck your ass, all you could do as lay there, pinned between them, and take it.

One of Boba's hands squeezed around your tit, rolling and kneading it, presenting it to Din, who swiftly leaned down to suck your nipple into his mouth.

You cried out, one hand reaching back to grasp at Boba while the other flew to clutch Din's hair.

"There we go," Boba said. His voice had deepened as he grew closer and closer to the edge. "You know she loves it when we play with those tits."

Din hummed around you, his tongue tweaking your bud and making you shake underneath him.

Boba reached down, finding your clit. You nearly screamed as he rubbed it furiously.

You were so close, so fucking close, and how you hadn't cum yet was blowing your hazy mind, so fucked and filled with bliss you were reduced to nothing but broken cries of pleasure.

Three more thrusts. Three more thrusts from your partners was all it took to throw you over the edge.

"Boba! Din!"

And you came hard.

Seizing between them, your entire body clenched with ecstasy. Your cunt turned into a vice around Din, and he grunted as you clamped down around him and practically ripped his own orgasm out of him. Thrusting into you as hard and far as he could, Din came, his seed spurting out of him and stuffing you full.

And when Boba heard Din's guttural groan, and felt the furious clenching of you around him, he wasn't far behind. Burying himself in you as far as he could and yanking you down on top of him, Boba exploded inside your ass.

You climax dragged you in its wake for what felt like hours, but finally, the muscles in your body released, and your body practically gave out, sinking into Boba's front. Every muscle felt like it had been turned to jelly, and trembled in the aftermath of your high.

Din pulled out from you as gently as he could, his own legs feeling a little shaky as he kneeled beside you on the bed.

"Gonna lift you now, princess," Boba was saying. "On three..."

Together, he and Din lifted you up gently, until Boba's softening cock slid out of your ass. You were so worn out you could barely even wince at the sudden empty feeling.

But you reacted with a teasing little smirk as you heard Din and Boba's simultaneous groans, knowing you were gaping. Then, with a gentle clench, you elicited another groan from them as they watched Din's spend slowly trickle out of you.

"I'll start the bath," Din murmured. You continued to smirk as he struggled to tear himself away from the both of you. But he eventually stood, pressing matching kisses to yours and Boba's cheeks and disappearing into the fresher.

Boba began to massage your thighs.

"Feeling okay?" he rumbled, nuzzling into your neck from where he was now laying beside you. You hummed and smiled softly, eyes fluttering closed.

"Not sure how I'll be walking tomorrow," you said, making Boba chuckle, "but I'm okay."

Boba hummed and kissed you. You curled into him, tangling your tongue with his.

When he pulled away, your breaths mingled.

"You better recover quick, princess," he said, quietly, conspiratorially, "because Din just got home. And I think that merits something a little more... focused, on him."

A spike of heat shot through you at the suggestion, and your lips quirked into a salacious little smirk.

"I agree."

Din came back into the bedroom right at that moment. He had to pause at the sight of you two, his partners, tangled together in the aftermath of what he thought was a perfect homecoming.

But with the way you looked up at him, with a hungry, hooded gaze through fluttering lashes, and the way Boba lounged, eyebrow quirked just enough to be noticeable, Din felt his mouth go dry.

The night wasn't over yet.

Taglist: @twistedstitcher27 @rexxdjarin @frietiemeloen @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @jedimastersovi @hnnybee @sleepingsun501 @virginoliveoil @rosmariner @sunshinesdaydream @adikas-world @theroguesully @dangerousstrawberrypie @kraytclaw @lindsaygallof @misogirl828 @thefact0rygirl @mxkyrie @rain-on-kamino

Sam's Pen and Sword Kinktober 2022 Taglist Form

To folks who wish to be tagged in my works, make sure to double check your visibility settings. I can’t tag you unless you have made your blog visible.

#sam's pen and kinktober #kinktober #kinktober 2022 #star wars kinktober #star wars kinktober 2022 #star wars #the mandalorian #the book of boba fett #tbobf #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett x y/n #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x y/n #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #boba fett x din djarin #boba fett x reader x din djarin #din djarin x reader x boba fett #din djarin x boba fett #din djarin x boba fett x reader #boba fett x din djarin x reader #fem reader #fem!reader #f!reader #I may be asexual #but this is straight up HEAVEN

[peridotglimmer]

Kinktober 2023 Masterpost

31 ficlets with 31 different ships

The full series can be found here!

Day 1: Collars - False/Cleo (Hermitcraft) | Decoration

Day 2: Clothed Sex - Diana/47 (Hitman) | Close Quarters

Day 3: Choking - Wyatt/Emma (Timeless) | Insufferable

Day 4: Desk Sex - Cameron/House (House M.D.) | By Reason of Insanity

Day 5: Bathing - Chloe/Nadine (Uncharted) | Reën in die Klein Karoo

Day 6: Pegging - Evil X/Cleo (Hermitcraft) | Repent

Day 7: Praise Kink - Evie/Élise (AC: Syndicate & AC: Unity) | Rules

Day 8: Lingerie - Bridget/Vera (Wentworth) | Coming Home to You

Day 9: Wall Sex - Beckett/Castle (Castle) | Blame It on the Hormones

Day 10: Coming Untouched - Pia Douwes/Uwe Kröger (Musical Theatre RPF) | Transition #1 [Note: written in German!]

Day 11: Breeding Kink - False/Pearl/Cleo (Hermitcraft) | When You Came In (The Air Went Out)

Day 12: Blow Jobs - Peyton/Blaine (iZombie) | Silence Is Golden

Day 13: Sixty-Nine - Loba/Valkyrie (Apex Legends) | Attention Management

Day 14: Ropes - Mirage/Wraith (Apex Legends) | Scout's Honour

Day 15: Voyeurism - Etho/Cleo (Limited Life SMP) | Respite

Day 16: Mirror Sex - Diana/Lucas (Hitman) | Change of Scenery

Day 17: Forced Orgasms - Xisuma/Keralis (Hermitcraft) | Entertainment

Day 18: Multiple Orgasms - False/Everyone (Hermitcraft) | for the sake of good times

Day 19: Stripping - Addison/Callie (Grey's Anatomy) | Sharing Is Caring

Day 20: Frottage - Becky/Felicity (Hidden Agenda) | Alive

Day 21: Somnophilia - House/Cuddy (House M.D.) | Good Morning Sunshine

#kinktober 2023 #kinktober #belle writes #31 ficlets with 31 different ships

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Midnight Masquerade - Wolffe

Chapter Summary: The bottle chooses Wolffe, and you get more than you bargained for. Not that you're complaining.

Chapter Warnings: wraith!Wolffe x gn!reader; kinks: exhibitionism + humiliation; reader is called some derogatory names (mostly 'whore'), please do heed the 'humiliation' warning, slight praise kink, Dom/sub dynamics, consent implied but not explicitly discussed beyond establishing safewords, begging, orgasm denial, temperature play sort of, masturbation (m & gn), reader is called derogatory names (mostly 'whore') but is not outright insulted, light slapping (once and it's not hard), ghost? sex?, gaping (if you squint), unprotected penetrative sex (can be read PiV or PiA), aftercare with some soft!Wolffe

Word Count: 3.0k

A/N: idk where this was going to go when I planned it in September, but here we are. enjoy, you heathens (affectionate).

...Wolffe. 

As the rest of the table cheers, Cody and Fox banging on the table and making glasses rattle, you draw a steadying breath. Turning to the commander in question to your left, you fight to suppress a shudder at the sight of him. 

Atop his head rests a black iron crown, glistening in the strobing lights. His face—his entire body—has discorporated into roiling gray vapors; his facial features, shoulders and chest seem nearly solid, but the rest of him is partially translucent, ephemeral. When he meets your gaze, his eyes are pinpricks of light, one milky white, the other near-black obsidian. A shiver breaks through your self-composure. Wolffe’s eyes drift to peruse your seated form, one gaseous eyebrow lifting to convey interest.

Whatever he sees, it seems to amuse him, as his lips quirk up in a knowing smirk. Leaning into your personal space, he tilts his head so his lips rest next to your ear. You shiver again, but this time it’s from the immediate way the temperature drops when he crowds against you. His new form is frigid; you realize that the vapors drifting off of him aren’t just part of the aesthetic. He’s practically sublimating.

“Don’t think I forgot your little stunt with the olive, cyar’ika,” he husks into your ear. His voice has an echoic quality, like it’s coming from the end of a long metallic tunnel. “It was quite the show you put on. Because it was a show, wasn’t it. You like being watched.” 

Despite his coldness, your body flushes with intense heat at his words. You draw back enough to meet his eyes, those cold flints of steel, and bite your lip almost without conscious thought. A single nod dips your head. 

Wolffe withdraws with a knowing smirk, then rises to—well, not his feet exactly, but rises to his full height. You trip over the legs of your chair in your haste to follow suit. Wolffe reaches out to steady you; his hands, to your surprise, are solid enough to catch you, though you feel like you’ve been doused in ice.

“Thanks,” you mumble. 

He merely grunts in acknowledgement, then gestures for you to lead the way. You acquiesce, winding through the packed dance floor, muttering sorrys and excuse mes that get lost amidst the chest-rattling bass of the music. Anticipation, anxiety, and arousal all bubble in your body, aware of Wolffe’s burning gaze on your back as you walk. Anticipation because you’re curious: is he going to be able to touch you? Really touch you? Anxiety because it’s Wolffe, for kriff’s sake; he’s one of the most intense, focused men you’ve ever met. And arousal because, well, it’s Wolffe. Even before tonight, he could set your blood alight with just a hardened glance.

After what feels like an eternity struggling to get through the crowd, you emerge, breathless, on the other side. Stepping through the door that leads to the rest of the building, you glance over your shoulder to make sure Wolffe is still there. 

And damn near trip over your own feet as shock jolts through you.

Wolffe is, indeed, still behind you—and behind him float three more figures. The Wolfpack. Comet, Sinker, and Boost, all in similar states of incorporeality, but only Wolffe bears a crown on his head. The Wraith King, your brain whispers. For some reason, that idea only intensifies the arousal pulsing through you. 

Your knees threaten to give out. “W-Wolffe?” 

“Problem?” he says with a dangerous smirk. 

“I- I—” You swallow around the sudden dryness in your throat. Gaze darting between the other three men, you shake your head. “No.” 

“Good,” he says. “Open the next door on the left.” 

Doing as you’re told, you reach for the doorknob, a plain thing made of brass, and twist. The door swings open silently. Inside, your eyebrows raise in surprise at the plain, cozy bedchamber furnishings. It doesn’t escape your notice that there are multiple places to sit in this room. Electricity buzzes beneath your skin as you hold the door open for the Wolfpack, only allowing it to swing shut once the last of them has crossed the threshold. 

Comet, Sinker, and Boost drift toward the bed, leaving you to have a semi-private moment with Wolffe. Every inch the commander, even in this form, Wolffe dominates the space, his cumulous figure drawing your attention as he hovers before you. He reaches one hand up to cup your face. Goosebumps prickle across your skin as you again feel like you’ve been plunged into ice. But the sensation of his smoky form against your skin is nevertheless soothing. Intoxicating. Alluring. Kriff, what have you gotten yourself into? 

Wolffe ducks his head to catch your gaze. “Safeword, cyar'ika?” 

“Meiloorun,” you supply without hesitation. “Yours?” 

He chuckles. “Ours will be ‘Republic’.” 

You nod in understanding. Ignoring the spectral forms of the other three in your peripheral, you reach with tentative hands towards Wolffe. One of your hands connects with something semi-solid where his shoulder is, and you smooth your thumb over the muscled swell of the joint. Your other hand cradles his face, the most solid part of him. He leans into your touch for just a moment, eyes sliding shut. His lips press into your palm where he turns his head. You shudder in delight. 

“Surprised you’re willing to share,” you say. 

A short laugh rises from one of the others. Comet, you think, shakes his head. “We aren’t here to share.” 

“Oh.” A frown creases your forehead. Wolffe’s mismatched eyes are faintly amused when you glance back at him. “Then why—” 

“They’re here to watch,” Wolffe says, voice low and rumbly. “Since that is what you like, isn’t it, you filthy little thing?” 

Wolffe’s words pulse heat directly to your core. Breath hitching, you blink at him. “Y-Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes—” You swallow thickly, body nearly singing with anticipation. “—Commander.”

With a rakish smile, he yanks you towards him and crashes his freezing lips against yours. You groan against his mouth, hands flying to find purchase, to stabilize yourself. One hand bracing against his chest, the fingers of your other hand curl around one of the points of his iron crown. The metal is colder than cold—but you don’t pull away, don’t dare move an inch. Wolffe’s arms, half-corporeal, encircle you in a tight embrace. 

You’re surrounded by cold, yet all you feel is the blazing inferno of desire raging within you. Core throbbing with need, it’s all you can do to stand there and let Wolffe kiss you. His lips are insistent against yours, demanding and needy at the same time. When he pulls away, you gasp for breath, head spinning. 

“Get on the bed,” he orders. 

Walking on wobbly knees, you manage to make it to the soft, plush surface of the bed in one piece. Four sets of eyes burrow into your back as you move. You wonder if you shouldn’t feel more embarrassed by the three additional clones watching you fall to pieces for their commander. But when you turn, Comet, Sinker, and Boost each have intense expressions on their faces, their eyes burning with a dark fire. They’ve apparently shed whatever clothing they’d had, because you can see the faint, shifting outlines of their toned bodies and, at the apex of their thighs, the shadowy lengths of their cocks. 

A moan drags from deep in your chest. 

“Hear that, boys?” Wolffe says, stepping close to you once again. “I think our little whore likes having an audience.” 

A chorus of chuckles echoes in the room. Your attention, so focused on the way that Boost grips the base of his cock, is brought rudely back to Wolffe. His hand clamps around your jaw, forcibly turning your face to look at him.

“Eyes on me, cyar’ika,” he commands, voice stern and gruff. “They’re here to watch you, not the other way around.” 

“Yes, Commander,” you whimper. His grip on your face, squishing your cheeks, muffles your words a little. Judging by the way his lips twitch into a sultry smirk, he likes it. So you continue, “Sorry, Commander.” 

“Such a polite little whore,” he purrs. 

Kissing your puffed lips once, he releases you with a small, harmless shove. You plop heavily onto the bed, bouncing on the mattress. Wolffe hooks his hands into the waistband of your pants and tugs them down around your legs. The fabric pools at your ankles, trapped by your shoes, but he doesn’t seem to care as he taps the underside of your thigh so you shift higher on the bed. 

Knees falling open, you rearrange yourself to lay half-supported by the nest of pillows on the bed. Your chest heaves, though Wolffe has barely touched you. In the corner of your vision, you’re aware of the rest of the Wolfpack taking a step closer, each of them lazily stroking their hard lengths. 

But you keep your eyes on Wolffe, as instructed. He quickly sheds whatever ghostly clothing he’d had on, yet remains standing at the edge of the bed, just out of reach. Even as a wraith, his body sets your mouth watering. Toned abs, a prominent Adonis belt, and flexing, powerful thighs, you wish you could have it all under your tongue. And maybe you will, when this is all said and done. 

For right now, though, you draw deep breaths to keep yourself grounded. Your eyes lock on where Wolffe’s large, scarred hand cups his balls, a moan chafing from your throat. 

“Wolffe,” you gasp. 

“Touch yourself,” he orders. “Show us how filthy you really are. How fucking dirty your mind is.”

Whimpering pathetically, you trail your fingertips over your exposed skin toward the juncture of your thighs. Your core, aching and ignored, throbs in anticipation of receiving stimulation. A gasp tears from you as your fingers dance over the heated skin of your core. You set a lazy pace, easing into the pleasure the same way you’d lower into a hot bath, inch by inch, bit by bit. Sweat already begins to dew along your body. 

“Fuck, look at that,” Boost mutters from somewhere near your feet. 

“So kriffin’ hot,” Sinker agrees. His voice sounds strained—blissed out. “Such a good little pet, following directions so well for the Commander.” 

You whine through your teeth, the praise shooting straight to your core. Brow furrowed in concentration, you force yourself to keep your eyes on Wolffe. He smirks like he knows how much you’re struggling, how desperately you want to look at the others and watch them come apart at the sight of you. Kriff, Wolffe had read you for filth with such ease, and here you are, whimpering and whining and writhing before him when all he’s done is kiss you. 

“Wolffe,” you plead again. 

He ignores what you’re silently asking for. Instead, he cocks one eyebrow. “Faster.”

Your body obeys before your mind fully registers what he demanded of you. Hand playing against your skin faster, you tense, pleasure surging within you. Your toes curl in your shoes as your back arches off the bed, hips jerking up against your hand to meet your ministrations at the source. Moaning loudly, you screw your eyes shut to stave off the impending orgasm that builds in your lower belly. 

A light, freezing slap to your face has your eyes snapping open. 

“Eyes. On. Me,” Wolffe grits out. “I won’t say it again.” 

“Yes, Command-errrrr.” You whine as you continue working your body up to the cliff’s edge. Pleasure presses against you from the inside, building steadily in temperature and volume until it pushes against your brain in the most shattering way. You’re hanging on by a thread, body ready to hurtle over the edge—but Wolffe hasn’t given the go-ahead yet. 

“Please!” you keen. “Please, can I cum? Please, please, please!” 

“What d’you think, boys?” Wolffe says. “Think that’s allowed yet?” 

Three matching voices answer: “Not yet.” 

“Not yet,” Wolffe repeats, voice thick with the smirk on his face. When you whine, frustrated tears blurring your vision, Wolffe tuts. “Oh, poor thing. Don’t be silly now, cyar’ika. The only place you’re cumming tonight is on my cock.” 

His words nearly shove you over the edge. You rip your hand away from your center, chest heaving with gasping, ragged breaths. Forcing your body to relax, you grit your teeth against the near-blinding pleasure that threatens to shove you into orgasm. After a few long moments, your heart begins to beat slower, your legs cease their quivering, and you sigh, slumping against the bed. 

“Sit up,” Wolffe orders. 

With shaking limbs, you manage to push yourself into a sitting position, legs still awkwardly stuck in your pants and splayed at odd angles. Wolffe settles into the bed behind you, but the only way you can tell is the cold, biting air that brushes over your heated skin as he moves. The bed doesn’t dip under his weight like you would normally expect. 

“Here,” he says, gripping your hips with frigid fingers. You hiss at the contact, his spectral form an unwanted balm to the blazing fire of desire coursing through you. But he ignores the sound you make and instead helps hoist you up and back, into his lap. Bracing yourself on the bed—your hands go right through his thighs—you hesitate before reaching down. 

“Are you—” Your voice cracks. “Do you want me to— Can I—?” 

Wolffe chuckle rumbles against your back pleasantly. “Aw, poor baby, can’t even talk right. Take your time, cyar’ika.” 

Embarrassment flushes through you, the stinging heat of self-consciousness clashing with the cozy warmth of arousal and mixing with it until your chest feels tight with need. Licking your lips, you take a deep breath and try again. 

“Can I ride you?” you finally say, enunciating every syllable. 

Instead of answering, Wolffe releases one of your hips and reaches between your bodies to line his thick length up with your entrance. Dimly, you wonder how this is going to work. But then he’s pushing into you, and your mind is wiped. 

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. He doesn’t prep you at all—doesn’t need to, because his cock is only sort of there. Even so, you’re being stretched open by something, something simultaneously glacial and volcanic, but when you look down there’s just barely the outline of his cock pressing into you. Your mind swirls with dizzying lust.

When Wolffe returns both hands to your hips, his fingers dig into your skin, likely to leave bruises. But you don’t care. Eyes screwed shut from pleasure, you roll your hips experimentally. Five separate moans bounce around the chamber; you can only imagine the view that the Wolfpack has right now as you seemingly fuck yourself on nothing. Wolffe grunts behind you, his hips rocking up to meet your movements halfway. 

“F-Fuck, Commander,” you moan. 

“Such a good fucktoy,” Wolffe grits out. “Take my cock so well.”

Your core clenches at the way he simultaneously praises and demeans you. In response, he punches his hips up, stealing your breath as the phantom tip of his cock presses right against the spot deep inside you that has you seeing stars. 

“Need you to cum, cyar’ika,” he mutters. He sounds absolutely wrecked, voice hard but cracking, starting to show just how much this is affecting him. 

You reach down to play with yourself once again, sighing as your fingers find purchase at your heated core. With rough, jerky movements, you bring yourself right back to the edge of shattered bliss as Wolffe continues to fuck into you. Pleasure pulses through you, hot and slick and desperate, and you barely have enough time to moan, “I’m cumming!” before your core clenches impossibly tight around his length. Every nerve in your body screams with ecstasy, your orgasm ripping through you so violently that you’re only held up by Wolffe’s strong embrace. 

“Oh fuck,” one of the others groans. Your eyes flutter open in time to watch as Sinker’s face contorts in pleasure and a white, gossamer substance spurts out of his cock, shining like ectoplasm. In the next instant, his body resolidifies into his human form, and he stumbles back into a chair, chest heaving. 

Wolffe snaps his hips up against yours once more and goes absolutely still, his grip on your hips painful, as his phantom dick swells and pulsates inside you. A choked moan claws out of your chest as you feel the cold ectoplasm convert mid-way into hot ropes of cum. Wolffe’s body reverts, coalescing into something solid, warm, and human. You slump back against his sweaty body, his cock still buried in you, filling you to the brim. 

Dimly, you’re aware of Comet and Boost both cumming with strangled shouts before they, too, return to normal. Your entire attention is devoted to Wolffe, whose breath heaves below you. His hands wrap around your middle to squeeze you to him. Lolling your head back, you press your nose against the crook of his neck and inhale his warm scent, pine and blaster residue. 

“You okay?” you murmur. 

His embrace tightens minutely. “Yeah. Yeah, just need a minute.” 

“Take your time,” you reassure, mouthing gently at his skin. “You did so good.” 

He snorts. “Pretty sure I’m supposed to say that to you.” 

You hum noncommittally. “Scenes can be rough on all parties.” Raising your head, you glance at the other three where they sprawl over various plush chairs, their own bodies slick with sweat. “Boys? You good?” 

Boost merely raises a thumb in your direction, his eyes closed. Comet calls, “All good,” while Sinker lets out a breathless laugh in response. 

Dropping your head back, you nestle into Wolffe’s warmth. “Commander?” 

“You don’t have to call me that now,” he says, thumbs stroking over your skin. “Just Wolffe is okay.” 

“Wolffe,” you say with a smile. “This was perfect.” 

He hums, tucking his chin down to press a chaste kiss to your shoulder. “I’m glad. Now, be quiet and let me hold you.” 

With a small chuckle, you readjust yourself so your spine isn’t bent at an awkward angle, then burrow down within his embrace. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Ragu: @the-hexfiles @thorsterstrudle @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @wolffegirlsunite @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @sinfulsalutations @523rdrebel @sunshinesdaydream @moonlightwarriorqueen @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @mandos-mind-trick @idontgetanysleep @eyeluvmusic21 @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @dreamie411 @bobaprint @imarvelatthestars @originalcollectionartistry @droids-you-are-looking-for @goblininawig @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @9902sgirl @jedi-hawkins if your name has a strikethrough, I can't tag you so check your settings! (if you'd like to be added or removed, click here!)

#commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #midnight masquerade #rhiwrites #hallowkink 23 #kinktober 23 #tcw wolffe x reader #the clone wars

[elumish]

The Unified Theory of the Omegaverse

Or: why straight published fanfiction is less unhinged than the stuff on AO3.

(CW for sexual assault and gender-based violence/oppression. Also this is very long.)

Okay, so here's my unified theory of omegaverse that you didn't ask for and may not want.

First, omegaverse as I see it exists in three main generations: the early supernatural era (first generation), the AO3/Tumblr era (second generation), and the published novel era (third generation). I've never read first generation omegaverse, so I'll only be speaking to it briefly, and almost entirely based off of stuff other people have written about it (namely Fanlore).

First gen omegaverse was Supernatural RPF that came out of a kink meme, and it was heavily focused on replicating the (misunderstood) sexual norms of wolves. MPREG, knots, excessive amounts of semen.

Second gen omegaverse came from inevitable fandom creep. A lot of people write for multiple fandoms and may read for even more, which means that stuff like this doesn't stay in its own fandom very long. It also moved from a Supernatural-specific place to the two main modern houses of multifandom: Tumblr and AO3. This omegaverse shifted more towards a societal framework for a "secondary gender" wherein some cis* men are capable of getting pregnant, biological essentialism rules and people's actions are largely driven by their secondary gender, and (usually) omegas face intense oppression in society. Male omegas are often presented as rare, but in a way that makes them desired. The part of people being driven by their secondary gender is important, and I'll get to that more later.

Second generation omegaverse is in many ways the same as D/s AUs and Sentinel/Guide AUs--many of these fics have two main secondary biological characteristics, sometimes with a neutral third (e.g., beta); these characteristics are innate but are revealed later in life, often during puberty; these characteristics are directly tied to personality, with one side being more emotional and submissive and the other side being protective, analytical, and dominant; these characteristics are tied to appearance, with those who are on the more submissive side of the characteristic divide being smaller and more physically effeminate while on the more dominant side they (at least the men) are larger and more muscular; there is some version of soul bonding that is part physical and part magical, often requiring PiV or PiA sex to be completed; the biological drive to bond is strong enough to drive people to commit sexual assault or mindlessly have sex they do not actually want; and societal hierarchy is built primarily around this secondary characteristic, often with limited intersectionality (because most characters that appear or are acknowledged are white cis* men). 

The main aspects specific to the omegaverse are mpreg, heats and ruts (though some version of this sometimes appears in the other AUs I mention), secondary gender being identifiable by scent, and biological differences like knots and slick (the male omega version of vaginal lubrication). Second gen omegaverse stories also tend to be, on average, more sexual assault and/or dub-con heavy than their counterparts in those other AUs.

Third generation omegaverse has fully escaped containment into published (usually self-published rather than trad published) novels. While second gen is mostly M/M or M/M/M, third gen is largely M/F or M/F/M(/M/etc). In these, the soul bonding, scent, reveal of characteristics at puberty, and to some degree the social hierarchy continue, but the impact of the secondary gender on personality is less of a focus. Male omegas are often presented as rare, but in a way that makes them largely irrelevant, and the focus is more on the soul bond and the emotional dynamic that an omega brings than on who has the ability to bear the children–probably because nearly every omega we see is a cis woman and nearly every alpha is a cis man.

Third gen omegaverse has clearly created its own understanding of the world; there have been terminology shifts, for example, from the second gen references to someone "presenting" as an alpha or an omega to the third gen's "perfuming"--used mostly, from what I've seen, for omegas. This indicates that third gen omegaverse stories are, at this point, likely drawing more from each other than from their origin.

What does all of this have to do with how unhinged they are? A lot, actually. But first it needs to be made clear what makes second gen omegaverse unhinged (at least from my point of view).

The most extreme (second gen) omegaverse stories establish a world in which sexual assault is a biological imperative. Omegas go into heat (and, in some stories, alphas go into rut), and they become mindless with the need to have sex with an alpha and be knotted (where a "knot" grows at the base of an alpha's penis, locking it in place inside of the omega to seal the semen inside of them and increase the chance of them getting pregnant). In some cases, it's a fuck or die scenario; in others, it is simply a mindless need that circumvents all other needs or desires. This is often established as existing to force pregnancies; in some stories, pregnancy is basically guaranteed from penetrative sex between an alpha and an omega in heat. Alphas, scenting this heat, also become mindless with need (though always less mindless than the omegas), and they are driven to knot the omega at all costs. Consent is not possible in these circumstances unless determined beforehand; in extreme versions, omegas become entirely insensate and alphas are unable to stop themselves. These universes are ones where pregnancy is such a biological imperative that people's bodies render them unable to avoid it and the sex that goes along with it.

In some stories, a bonding is unavoidable when an unbonded alpha has sex with an unbonded omega in heat; the alpha biting the omega is a physical prerequisite, but is often similarly biologically forced during that mindless(ish) pairing.

Sexual assault is such a key assumed part of second gen omegaverse stories that authors will sometimes specifically note when it doesn’t happen in the story, like a reverse content warning. 

Secondary genders (or dynamics, depending on the story) become biological drivers of what people think men and women are like now, only all overlaid over cis* white men for whom a lot of the real world squickiness if applying biological essentialism do not apply for a lot of progressives. It's not as uncomfortable to say that some cis* white men are naturally submissive due to the same biology that makes them able to bear children, because obviously that has no bearing on real life.

Some stories that are about subverting the expectations of the genre specifically challenge the idea that omegas are naturally submissive and want to always submit (societally and sexually) to alphas, in the same way that women have been challenging for generations the idea that all women are and want to be submissive to men. This is not an accidental parallel. But those omegas (the main character, generally) are presented as the outlier–most omegas want to be oppressed. 

Now for one of the other big things, and the reason I keep putting the asterisk after cis: the mpreg thing. Based on my very scientific survey method of remembering things I've read on the internet, this is one of the most commonly cited things regarding why omegaverse stuff is weird. And so let's talk about the idea of men getting pregnant–specifically, the physiology required for cis men to carry a fetus to term and successfully give birth.

If your thought is “intersex” then congrats, you’re using a term that the vast majority of omegaverse fics do not acknowledge. But that’s what most omega men are; they are AMAB but have some levels of internal organs that allow them to bear children. They generally have penises, but in some versions those are micropenises. They may or may not have an additional opening beyond their anus that functions as a vagina or equivalent, which releases slick (which otherwise comes out of the anus). These are all built around the idea of cis men being able to bear children and not being able to impregnate others. Sometimes they can give birth naturally; other times they can’t, which leaves an open question of how that actually came about evolutionarily.

Chromosomes are never discussed, at least that I’ve read, but it’s unclear if children can be born with YY chromosomes. One would assume those fetuses aren’t viable and result in a miscarriage, so we can probably not worry about that.

Intersex bodies, to be clear, are not in any way problematic or inappropriate to show in fiction. But omegaverse fics, almost to a story, don’t just present those bodies but fetishize them–and, specifically, fetishize what makes omega bodies different from perisex cis male bodies. Omega male bodies become notable because they are not “true” male bodies, because they can bear children.

Female bodies do not get the same level of consideration in these stories, in large part because female bodies rarely exist in these stories, at least on the screen. Women are referenced, often as an afterthought–the author recognizing that they have, perhaps, forgotten about the other half of the population. Female omegas are, in essence, simply cis women with heats and omega scents and the soulbonding structure. And female alphas are rarely examined and even more rarely fetishized. This is where the childbearing framework does begin to break down, as female alphas are generally described as being, in essence, cis women as well. Penises remain solely for men in most omegaverse stories.

In most of these stories, society exists in a strict social hierarchy, one that reframes gender norms and rights into being split down secondary gender lines rather than traditional gender lines. With the exception of a rare few stories where alphas are oppressed for being naturally aggressive, omegas are the oppressed class or are just moving past a civil rights movement that has given them some level of legal equality.

In the extreme examples, omegas are “owned” by the alpha in their family (their alpha parent, their alpha sibling, and then their alpha bondmate). They are unable to do anything on their own–have a job, have a credit card, own property, in some cases even leave the house–and so must have an alpha. This can become a plot point, forcing omegas who do not have a related alpha to bond before they want to/to someone they don’t want to.

It’s a clear application of rigid gender structures that have existed and do exist up to modern times, but just placing them on white cis men. We get all those fun victimization narratives and “what ifs” that dystopian novels give us for white ablebodied cis/het people in general (the “what if straight white people weren’t allowed to be with who they love” YA novels of the world) without having to think too hard about women and disabled people and People of Color who do face situations like this in real world and who would face much worse in these worlds. But they don’t really exist in these worlds, so we don’t have to worry about that.

It’s sexy because it’s fake, you see.

All of this gives us stories where weaker, submissive, oppressed white cis men are at the mercy of stronger, aggressive, privileged white cis men, who can choose whether or not to act with basic human decency towards them. And sometimes they do, and that’s romantic, and sometimes they don’t, and that’s sexy. It’s tension.

Which brings us to third gen omegaverse stories–the straight ones.

Now we have a world where most omegas are cis women, and so most of the “abnormal” or intersex body stuff is irrelevant. Omegas aren’t as much about childbearing, because cis women are (usually) capable of bearing children, and so it’s not notable. And the question of whether male omegas (if they do show up) can bear children doesn’t seem to come up much, in much the same way that the question of female alphas is rarely answered in any detail in second gen omegaverse stories.

So now we’re left with the sexual assault and the strict social/legal hierarchies. And the unfortunate fact is that those are both things that women still live with right now, and so that tantalizing “what if” is gone. “What if women were regularly sexually assaulted and oppressed by men” is, unfortunately, a question we continue to have a very good answer to.

And (with a bit of a caveat), women being sexually assaulted and oppressed by men is just…less of a fantasy to female readers, who are the main target audience for these stories (as well as the main authors of these stories). (The caveat is that, of course, a lot of romance novels do have both very clear sexual assault and stuff that is definitely sexual assault but is presented as just cool and sexy and not terrible.) Women being legally owned by the men in their life and not being able to work or make financial decisions or leave the house without them is not a major sexual fantasy for most women, because that still happens and is not too distant a past in the places where it doesn’t happen now.

That’s not to say that the hierarchy and the sexual assault don’t exist, but they’re (from what I’ve seen) less extreme and less a prevalent part of the story. What is likely a tantalizing, edgy story for a lot of female readers when portraying two men becomes just dark when one of those characters is a woman. 

All of this means that third gen omegaverse is very much the omegaverse with all of its edges softened. Even the things that aren’t quite as uncomfy when placed back on women are softened down to something fantastical. Omegas are more conscious during heats, more cognizant of what’s going on. Decisions can be made during heats, something that’s often explicitly not the case in second gen omegaverse stories. And a lot of the biological essentialism is softened as well–the territorialism and over-the-top controlling behavior that’s written as innate to alphas is softened to something closer to normal romance novel male love interest behavior, and the submissiveness to the point of not being able to make eye contact or refuse commands in omegas is softened as well.

In fact, the entire idea of a strict hierarchy existing beyond just the clear alpha/beta/omega delineation tends not to be as prevalent. A lot of second gen omegaverse stories present alphas as having a range of dominance that can be, if not quantified, then at least judged on a relative basis. That tends not to be in the case in third gen omegaverse stories, at least from what I’ve seen–they’re just generally aggressive and dominant in the way that major male characters are generally written in romance novels.

Overall, the shift from M/M omegaverse stories to M/F omegaverse makes a lot of those necessary body changes in second gen omegaverse to make pregnancies possible moot, as well as resulting in the sanitization of a lot of the stuff that’s speculative when everyone involved is a man and unfortunately realistic when some people are women.

Tl;dr: as the omegaverse has moved from AO3 to the straight published space, it’s become just another vaguely-different hat to place on top of romance novels, losing a lot of what makes it specific - but the alternative is writing a universe that looks a little too uncomfortably close to the bad parts of the real world.

#elumish blogs #fandom #to be clear this is very unedited #and also very long #apologies to everyone following me who doesn't actually want to hear about random fandom stuff

[villainanders]

YOU’RE letting astarion drink from you because you’re a good person who cares about his happiness or bc you want the happiness perk in battle. pia is doing it because she has very specific kinks

#right now the MO is you can do whatever fucked up thing you want to my body we’ll see how it shakes out #brain zoomed by the gith machine branded by the absolute take out my eyeball to kiss it #would have done Volos lobotomy but the game makes you refuse if you already did Ethel’s!! I want TWO fucked up eyes #Chloe vs those gates

[piosplayhouse]

Hi Pio, you have in my mind become the foremost expert on pregnancy kink, so I'm fielding this question your way. Sorry. Do you know if there's a term for m/m breeding/pregnancy kink where the top gets pregnant (from PIA sex). I have NO idea how to tag this wip.

Hmmm!! To clarify, the top gets pregnant through his dick(?) I don't know if there's any specific term for that because it's so niche 🤔 I respect the grind though, maybe you can make your own term for it.. hyena type shit

#nsft

[polarseven]

Hey, I'm finally making a pinned post! I update it occasionally, whenever it needs it.

My name is Polar! I'm queer, trans, and in my mid 20s. There will be 18+ stuff here, please be mindful of that.

I have a few tags!! If you don't want to see something you can filtering out these tags. They're pretty self explanitory. If you need anything else tagged please let me know!

#polar||self — blog posts, things that I consider relevant to myself, when I actually say stuff

#polar||nsft — nsft stuff

#polar||photo — photos I take!

Asks and DMs are open, just be polite :3 Asks will be tagged with #iceberg asks

Hobbies and interests below the break!!

I have a lot of hobbies and interests, the main ones currently being:

Webcomics/webtoons (I read/have read over about 200 different webcomics and counting to please feel free to talk to me about them!!)

Rhythm games (any but especially: ADOFAI, Beat Saber, and Thumper)

Cartoons/Animation

Balatro

Pia and the Little Tiny Things

Widdershins

Scott Pilgrim Takes Off

The Amazing Digital Circus

Rock climbing

Ice Skating

Kink positivity

Puzzles (twisty puzzles, puzzle books, puzzle games, etc. Not really jigsaw puzzles, though they can be fun to do with someone)

Fionna and Cake (THERE ARE TWO N'S)

Craig of the Creek

Celeste (Finishing Summit D-Side and Strawberry Jam intermediate lobby right now. I also speedrun it, close to sub hour!!! I GOT SUB HOUR!!!!)

Pseudoregalia (Sub 30 minutes!!!)

Homestuck

A ton of other video games

I think that's all for now thank you for reading this it makes me feel appreciated <3

#pinned post