prttylilkittn - Tumblr blog

[prttylilkittn]

The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

[prttylilkittn]

monster!könig with a reader that genuinely finds him cute??

You squeeze his cheeks in human form, tracing his scars with your hands. He is handsome while human - but you beg him to shift into monster form because you like the feeling of his tentacles too much. It's weird, and you know that humans shouldn't find monsters desirable or adorable, but you can't help yourself. Every time Konig has this weird, embarrassed expression, you just can't help but kiss him all over. You adore him, you adore him, you adore him - by gods, it is embarrassing. You can't help it though. You squeeze the tentacles, you play with them as much as you can - you smile when Konig tries to shoo you away, a bit shy from having a lowly human explore his face, his body like this. He likes having a willing mate to bear his eggs, but he doesn't like the attention. At least at first - he wishes you'd be less aroused and more scared. Makes the chase way more fun when you're actually trying to get away from him instead of playing right into his desires. Konig grumbles something about not being adorable, but you just laugh, squeezing his tentacles even more and giving each of them a little kiss. You don't mind cockwarming your monster husband as long as he allows you to smother him with affection, and he doesn't mind being smothered as long as he can feel your pussy tightening around his cock, stretching and filling it with eggs. You don't act like this around others, thankfully, as Konig still has the reputation to uphold. He just hates that you don't act scared sometimes - it makes him want to punish you for not being a model human and shake at the sight of him. Honestly, he sometimes wants to squish you instead. He wouldn't do it, of course, liking you too much. It's just...you have to know it's always a possibility.

[prttylilkittn]

when you thought you were special to someone

🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡

[prttylilkittn]

OOOOHH IM FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD

Does anyone want to hear about android!Ghost's dick? No?

OK well I wanna talk about it so...

Starting off strong with the "he doesn't have one" argument because what use does he have for one when he's literally built for active duty? Well. First of all who build a robot you can't fuck? Second of all shhhhhhhh.

As it stands he doesn't have one. Not that he doesn't want one or wouldn't use one but the military can be so stingy... so obviously he's gotta enlist his favorite mechanic to make him one. Which is a fun in person request to make. Just showing up to your workshop and telling you he wants a dick while you studiously do not look at his crotch. You can feel him smirking when you ask what he plans to do with it. (He'd get by pretty well with his fingers and *redacted* but nothing beats dick)

So you gotta design a dick for this guy, take measurements, get input, spend hours agonizing over the neuropathways and how you're going to link this in to his synthetic nervous system. Plus like... are you gonna make this thing come? You probably should. If Ghost is going to be using it he should get something out of it.

So now you have to design an orgasm program. Which is easier said than done because how do you quantify that, and how do you code it, and most importantly how do you test it?

Well you test it by hooking Ghost up to the computer and setting the program to run, watching him stiffen and arch his hips into the feeling, swearing in that low mechanically filtered voice as he humps the air. Fuck he looks good. UNPROFESSIONAL THOUGHT. OK you stare at your screen and run a few more variations, asking him to describe each one and rank them. Great orgasm locked and loaded, now you have to set up trigger scenarios.

Which also means when you actually get the android dick to a solid prototype you have to call Ghost in and install it. You reserve the day, clear it with Price (new parts testing, custom made, you tell him. Giving no other details. He doesn't ask) and keep a fire extinguisher and a kill switch nearby while you tell Ghost to... jerk off.

And then you watch him stroke the gorgeous, big, cock you custom designed for him with thick, deft, fingers. And you wait for the orgasm program to trigger. And hope that nothing glitches and he doesn't rip your beautiful masterpiece of a dick off, and also that the come you designed actually comes out at the right time. So you sit there and watch him, press your thighs together and try not to shift in your seat even though you can hear the click of Ghost's cameras as he watches you watching him.

You don't wonder what he's thinking about. You don't focus on the grunt of pleasure he lets out. You do tap at your screen to check the sensitivity levels on the synthskin you used. You do reach to make sure he isn't squeezing too tight or stroking too rough and end up with lube based come spurting onto your face.

Which you suppose means it works.

Which means moving on to partner trials, and your hand tentatively wrapped around Ghost's fat cock. You don't remember why you made it so thick, but it doesn't help the ache between your legs. You try to keep a professional look on your face as you reset the program and start to stroke him with much gentler fingers. You ignore the come staining your face until Ghost swipes his fingers through it and pushes those same fingers into your mouth.

You end up on the workbench with him, grinding your clothed cunt against his firm thigh as you stroke his cock and he pumps his fingers into your drooling mouth. Mutter all manner of filth to you. Greedy whore, desperate piece of meat for him to fuck now that you've made equipment for him. Aren't you a smart little toy to make him exactly what he asked for, and so big too. "That what you want love," he asks, "you want a fat cock to split you open? Look'it you drool, probably tried it out before you stuck it on me."

Even if you didn't you can't say you didn't think about it, didn't drag your fingers over the dick appreciatively. All the scaling in the world, trying to make sure it would look right, fit right, on Ghost's body and you still made it with your preferences in mind. He knows it too. That's why he reminds you what a cock hungry toy you are. "All cooped up in here with no one to show you your place," you drag your tongue along his fingers, work your cunt against him, hope you leave a wet spot on his synth skin, hope he can feel you through the coveralls, "bet you dream about one of your bots holding you down and giving you what you deserve."

You can try and shake your head but he just holds your cheeks, twisting the fingers in your mouth to accommodate. Ghost makes a noise, a sort of clicking sound you can't parse, and tips his head. "Can't lie to me, deserve better than I could give ya, but now?" He pulls his fingers from your mouth and fists your coveralls, pulling purposefully at the material, "Now I've got all day."

[prttylilkittn]

I NEED SOMEONE TO NEED ME LIKE THIS... OTHER THAN MY CAT

thinking about your older bf!simon that cannot cope with being far from you.

when you’re in the shower, he’s sat on the lid of the toilet on his phone (watching those rug cleaning videos) enjoying your faint singing under the stream of water, the smell of your body wash on the cloud of steam- ready to pass you a towel or get your back.

when you’re at your desk, working from home or studying, he’s just on the other side of it reading the paper with one outstretched leg tangled with both of yours. he’s dead quiet when you’re on a call, just happy to be around.

when you’re doing laundry, collecting the clothes in the hamper and crouching to stuff them into the washer- turning around and accidentally colliding with a thick wall of muscle.

“sorry, love”

he steps aside but you can hear his soft footfalls as he continues to follow you throughout your home.

when you’re both watching something on the couch, what starts as his pinky locked with yours turns into his arm around your waist. that turns into your head on his chest, which culminates with you falling asleep in his lap with his cheek on your head and soft snores emanating from his lips.

when you grocery shop, you push the trolley but his chest is to your back, arms either side of you and hands clasped over yours on the handle. you can thank his military training for his uncanny ability to tell exactly when you’ll stop walking.

when he wakes up in the middle of the night, on a rare occasion when you’ve managed to slip out of bed without him realising, he’s immediately in a panic calling your name.

“in here, my love”

as soon as his heart settles, he realises the bathroom light was probably a dead giveaway. you’re taking a wee, you’ll be back in a minute.

that doesn’t stop a sleepy simon from leaning in the doorframe, shielding his eyes from the big light as he waits for you to finish up.

even on the short walk back to bed, you can feel fingers twisted in the back of your shirt- almost like you’re leading the way.

minute you’re both on the mattress, you’re being wrapped up in his arms, slotting you perfectly into the curve of his front- almost like you’re made for him.

(and you are)

[prttylilkittn]

You can never take the military out of a man. Not when that man lost so much thanks to it, giving it his very own soul to serving the Queen and saving the world. Not a single thought about retirement ever going through Simon's head, fully accepting and embracing the idea of dying on the field, of having a warrior's death, fighting tooth and nail until someone gets lucky enough to finally put him down— until you came along.

Simon Riley is a proper lad now, well in his 50's and on his fifth year of retirement, strands of grey adorning his dark brown hair, a thin layer of fat covering his bulging muscles that seem to be getting bigger by the years, never one to stand still for too long and secretly loving the way you praise his body like he's a God.

He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, another deep moan dragging its way out of his throat at the way your hand wraps around his thick cock with a vice-like grip, your warm tongue circling his leaking tip, his salty precum mixing in with your saliva.

“Like tha', baby.” Simon whispers, his hand wrapping around a fistful of your pretty hair the moment you lick a teasing stripe over his bulbous, pink tip. His free hand quickly replaces yours— something you're too familiar with after being together for so many years, your hands resting on his thick thighs just to feel the way his muscles ripple beneath your soft palms.

“Open your mouth.” It's not an order, it's a plea, his gravelly voice becoming slightly whiny with each deep groan leaving his lips as he wanks over your face, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath he was forced to take. Your lips part with no hesitation, the warmth of your breath as your tongue pokes out of your mouth is what sends him over the edge, ropes of thick, hot cum landing in your mouth with an accuracy that could have surprised you if you weren't too busy being enthralled by your husband.

Simon looks like a fucking painting, the light coming from the ceiling giving his bulging muscles the perfect shadow, his thin lips slightly parted and a light stubble adorning his pale cheeks, half-lidded eyes staring down at you with blown pupils as he mindlessly smears his hot, creamy cum all over your face with his sensitive tip, just as enamoured as you are.

[prttylilkittn]

Look. I’m gonna be that cool friend of yours that sits on the seat backwards to talk to ya. Because we need to make some things clear.

Don’t be a jackass to people. Block or back out.

This is an 18+ space for legal reasons.

This is a queer positive space.

This is a sex positive space.

This is a kink positive space.

This is a body-autonomous space.

TERF and SWERF rhetoric is not welcome here. RadFem rhetoric is exclusionary and hurtful.

Trans women are women; trans men are men; gender exists on a spectrum and we believe people when they tell us what they are.

Sex work is real work. Period. End of discussion. The exploitation of workers is not limited to sex work.

Thinking you’re morally superior to someone else is cruel and perpetuates stereotypes that actively cause harm.

Censoring your words is a violation of consent - people have tagged certain words to prevent them from seeing it. Censoring it violates their choice. (And also? Be an adult. Use the words as they’re intended to be used.)

People deserve to be cared for and have their basic needs met, regardless of status, identity or health concerns. (This includes mental health too.)

If you don’t like any of this, block or back out. Be an adult about it. This is not an airport, you don’t need to announce your departure.

Bigotry will not be tolerated.

We good? Good.

[prttylilkittn]

I AM A SLUT FOR FORCED MARRIAGE ANGST ASDFGHJKL OMFG

part 1 of regency era!ghost x reader

noodled from this. warnings: angst, forced/arranged marriage, emotional neglect, Simon being an absolute dick.

you weren't an idiot. you knew better than to expect love from an arranged marriage. if watching your parents' has taught you anything, it's to not have such high hopes for something so impossible to achieve.

but at the very least, you hoped for some level of cooperation. a hint of companionship. a friendship, perhaps.

your husband has been so cold from the very beginning. he met you the day of the wedding. you both said your vows, kissed and briefly danced for the court to witness. after that, there was a few moments of the consummation of the marriage and you were sent on your way after that was over with.

it was difficult to adjust to his indifference, despite what you've been told. you thought that you would be the exception to it, that you would be treated with a hint of warmth, considering that you were going to spend the rest of your life with him.

but there was no such warmth nor care spared for you. you even doubt it was spared for his mistress too, but at least she seemed to be enjoying herself in his bed, which did break your heart even more. the thought of his infidelity did hurt, but it was to be expected. he is a king, after all. kings to whatever they want. and whatever needs you can't meet, he's surely finding them elsewhere.

yet you still tried. you tried your best to be a good queen, a good wife. despite what you've been told about his first love, about the woman he lost to another man, you attempted to be something he can look forward to at the end of the day.

you wore dresses that were in his favourite colour. sprayed all sorts of perfumes to make sure you smelled nice for him. kept your hair prim and proper so he might notice. wore jewellery that you thought he might find pretty on your skin.

left flowers in his study to brighten his day. sometimes sunflowers, sometimes roses, sometimes daisies. it was trial and constant error, just hoping that he might tell you his favourite ones so you can stick to those, but he never did.

the only reason you stopped doing so was because one of the maids heard him muttering complaints about how the flowers clutter his desk. alright. no flowers then. man needs to work hard and he needs all the space he can get.

but you were determined to brighten his study. so you painted the sunset for him. painted the sunrise, painted the night sky, painted the moon and stars for him, but he never even took the time to even look at one of those paintings. the canvases were left in the corner of the room and thrown away, per his request.

you even put all your violin lessons to use in trying to impress him, but it was all in vain.

read all his favourite books to try and open a fruitful conversation about them, only for him to shut you down when he lashes out and tells you "you will never be her".

a moment of silence passes as the tears we'll in your eyes before he commands you to leave the room because he can "barely hear his own thoughts with all that chattering".

yes, that one did sting. your shoulders dropped and your cheerful expression broke ever so slightly before you hid it with neutrality. you bowed and walked away, as per his demand request.

that was what stopped you from trying. if he found your presence that much of a hinderance to his peace, then you guess there's no point in trying to be friends with him at all.

from there on, you spoke less. in his presence and the presence of others. being a burden to anyone never sat right with you and his words aggriviated that train of thought, so you just tried not to ramble, tried not to fidget too much under the gaze of the lords and ladies and even the servants. kept your thoughts to yourself and only applied what was necessary and what was required of you. kept a blank stare at the ceiling and numbed your mind while you both performed in your monthly mandatory marital duties, waiting for him to jerk his hips and fill your womb with his spend then you'd be on your way.

at some point, you'd even given up those visits under the guise of faint illnesses and you hadn't heard a single word about it from the king. you figured it was because he most likely relished your absence, or didn't notice it at all.

either way, you were tired.

exhausted of giving one hundred percent of yourself and getting less than half in return. you've had to endure it with your parents, with your siblings and now your husband. if you could not be first or even second or third choice in anyone's heart, then you'd rather not be a choice at all.

unbeknownst to you, the moment you pulled away was when he started to notice you.

unbeknownst to you, Simon had gotten so used to your presence outside of his bed chambers that he felt somewhat pinched by the lack of it.

his desk didn't have a new boquet of flowers sitting in their vase anymore. the air lacked a particular sweetness in your absence. something about your scent and the sound of your voice telling him about the little details of your paintings that just... soothed the voices in his head.

Simon didn't want to admit that he found you charming. it felt like he was betraying the woman he loved. the woman who sailed out of the country once she'd gotten married and wished him well in life.

but the fact of the matter is that you were a stark reminder that even a king has responsibilities. you were the reason why he couldn't even have his freedom. yet somehow, after many moons, his freedom started to take shape in the form of your smile.

so much so that he tried to seek it out. eight months after he'd yelled at you and took a knife to you heart.

only to be met with a startled expression and a tense posture one breakfast morning.

he remembers the painful silence of that day in the gardens. the brief glance you cast to your handmaiden as if to say "what the fuck is he doing here???" not to mention the little shrug from your handmaiden telling you that she has absolutely no idea and she's just as shocked as you are before setting your wide eyes on him, a half-chewed biscuit stuck between your delicate fingers. the pure terror in your eyes because this has never happened before and you're unprepared for such an unprecedented event.

this being him coming to see you in the morning. or ever. this being him sitting down with you for breakfast before the painstaking day begins.

he wasn't prepared for the way your fear and confusion twisted something in his chest. even more so when he realized how quiet you suddenly were around him. never speaking more than ten words. never looking directly at his eyes anymore. sitting so stiffly in your chair with your hands on your lap that he couldn't reach out to attempt to comfort you.

you were polite to him, however. he thinks that might be the worst part. if you'd been angry or upset, he might have felt more comfortable to offer apologies and promises of reparation, but he's not sure how to proceed when he's faced with a wall of quiet fear.

he's not deterred, though. he's done being an ass to you and he should start making amends.

[part 2] banners by @saradika

No Taglist.

do not like, comment, reblog or follow— in fact, do not interact with this blog if you're a minor or if you have no age in your bio. read the [ground rules]. you have no excuses if you get blocked.

[prttylilkittn]

Always thinking about whatever monster is capable of using their claws to tear a hole through your stockings where your wet heat is, werewolf or otherwise: They're too impatient

werewolves are of course very good, but many monsters have sharp claws and big tounges to fuck you with.

Imagine, a seven-foot-tall Orc husband who wants nothing more than to spend all day with you in bed making you cum until you go limp and pass out from pleasure. and depending on your boundaries, maybe a little after that too.

But nooooo you can't stay in bed getting fucked all day. you have to "do housework" and "run errands". or whatever. Your orc husband does understand that if you spend your time on his dick instead of doing dishes and buying groceries it will make his life worse, but it's hard to care about stuff like food when he's thinking with his cock.

He follows you around as you jump between tasks trying to find a large enough window of free time for a quicky. He thinks you're so cute when you act like his little housewife it only makes him want to fuck you more. but you stay too busy to take a quick load of Orc cum.

By the time you finally consider your work done for the day, he's on edge and his nerves are shot, he feels like he's going to burst just looking at you. you try to sit down on the couch but half a second later you're snapped up and thrown over his shoulder. It's finally his time to have some fun.

He tosses you on your shared bed on your hands and knees, spreading your legs wide apart, and slashes at your clothes with his long talon-like nails. He presses his mouth to your exposed cunt and moans at your taste, he pushes the remaining scraps of your clothes away while keeping his mouth on you, unwilling to let go of your sweet pussy for even a second now that he has you where he wants you.

He's happy like that making out with your pussy, gripping onto your hips with one hand and jerking off his poor ignore cock with the other. He growls to himself as he listens to your pretty moans of pleasure as you buck your hips back against his face, trying to fuck yourself back on his thick tongue, groaning in satisfaction when you cum, gushing on his mouth, dripping down his chin. Then he swaps his tongue out for his fingers, dipping his mouth a little lower to suck on your clit.

You whimper and protest weakly the feeling was too much this soon after your first orgasm, which just makes him laugh to himself. "would you prefer if I just fucked you right now without stretching you out?" he asks teasingly. That shut you up. Silly little thing, you didn't really think you'd get away with only one orgasm after teasing him all day, did you?

[prttylilkittn]

what if viking!simon x reader haven’t kissed at all since their wedding? like they’re having all the sex and stuff but they still haven’t kissed yet (maybe simon doesn’t think to bc he thinks he’s still just fulfilling a need and not seeing it as something intimate w reader, and reader is too shy to ask)

but then they finally do (maybe during sex maybe not) and it’s a lightbulb moment for both of them and he just turns to mush 🫠 like you said - it’s like a scratch behind his ear, like he realises she’s actually likes/loves him

(sorry i love fluffy slightly angsty smut to my core)

thank you! x

god I just want a little kiss okay? just a little one as a treat

c/w: sex, doggy style, simon’s wife just wants a lil kiss

he just doesn’t get it. why would you ask him for such a thing? it’s too intimate, he thinks to himself as his cock pumps in and out of your cunt from behind. too much, he continues in his head after planting one foot on the edge of the mattress for leverage as he picks up the pace. very complicated.

it doesn’t seem odd to him that the two of you fuck regularly with no romantic strings attached. yes, you’re husband and wife but you aren’t in love. the sex is just the two of you fulfilling a need. scratching each other’s itch, is the way he likes to put it

he’s tempted to tell you no. to shut down your childlike fantasies of love and romance with no remorse. but you look so pretty like this, he thinks. on your hands and knees in his bed, head turned to the side to look up with pleading eyes, mouth moving to spill out more pleas and begs for just a kiss husband, please

so he leans down, one hand tangled in your hair to keep you pinned to the mattress, to slot his lips against yours. it’s far from a loving, gentle kiss. it’s raw. desperate. his tongue is tangled with yours. no care of wether you give him permission or not

it’s only when he feels the way your cunt clamps around him in a way he’s never felt before, the way your body slumps against the mattress and melts against his brute frame, and the pretty way you moan out his name. moan out for more…

only then does he understand

[prttylilkittn]

Reblog if you think a woman can be complete without children

Y’ALL HAVE TIME TO REBLOG THIS. IT TAKES LESS THAN FIVE SECONDS.

[prttylilkittn]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

[prttylilkittn]

Simon brain-rot took over🥴 +18 smut incoming

it is a universally known fact that "just the tip" is a troupe that goes to Soap. but what if you're begging Simon for just the tip when you've ran out of condoms and you're not on birth control but you're so fucking horny it hurts :(

and he might roll his eyes and grumble something along the lines of "needy brat" but deep down, he wants to throw all caution to the wind because he's got a breeding kink that has never been allowed to see the light of day until now.

with eyes so heated as they land on you, he slowly backs you until you fall on the bed and he crawls on top of you. he slips a hand under your skirt to find two things. one, not panties. and two-

"you're fucking soaked, luv." it's impossible not to moan as his fingers card through you wet folds. "want my cock that bad?"

you nod vigorously and bite your lip when he undoes his belt. he doesn't even fully take his pants off, just shucks them far enough down his thighs so his cock can sprint free while he spreads your legs wider to accommodate his hips.

but oh, you don't need much prep. you're already so wet that it makes his fingers prune when he teases you and makes you whine and beg for more. so he obliges you.

gives you more just like you ask. the tip of his cock, swollen and flushed and leaky, nudges your entrance while he thumbs your needy little clit. he throws his head back, groaning loudly while you mewl and squirm under him, rocking your hips to get more of him inside you.

he presses a hand on your stomach to stop you from moving too much or he's gonna blow his load too soon. "stay still, love."

but you don't. you're pawing at his arms, his stomach, begging him to come a little closer to you..

"stop squirming." he barely registers your legs wrapping around him, ankles locking at his back, pulling him. his cock sinks deeper inside your cunt, he catches the sight of your lip trapped between your teeth. "getting desperate, are we?"

he gives a shallow thrust that draws a high-pitched moan from you. you're so needy today, it makes him all soft inside because he's never one to deny you what you want. not when what you want is him. knowing that, knowing that you get off from him, that he's the only man who can get you like this, it gives him some sort of a power trip on the inside.

"want me to fuck you that bad? is that it?" you nod, glassy-eyed. "fine." he pries your legs off of him and pins them to your chest, slowly pulling his cock out until only the tip stayed. "have it your way."

a sharp cry punches out of you at the first snap of his hips. he's so deep, he's kissing your cervix. that delicious stretch makes your eyes roll back.

he keeps his thrust sharp and direct, groaning at how wet you are, you're practically creaming his cock until there's a white ring at the base of him. "fuckin' hell, begging for it like the needy little thing you are."

your trembling hands grasp onto something, his arms, nails digging in and denting his skin the way his fingers do to your thighs. a testament to the ache in your bones, the sheer longing your souls have for each other.

it's filthy. depraved. fucking messy. no condom. he can see it in your eyes just as you see it in his. there's no going back from this. no better feeling than this. no barrier to prevent the feeling of his bare cock sliding in and out of your cunt raw for the first time. it makes you both lose control.

'just the tip' has long since been tossed out the window and forgotten as he fucks you with full intent, sinking his shaft right down to the hilt. every precaution drowned in the depths of the ocean floor as your voice calls out his name in shaky moans until your cunt starts to tighten and you arch your back when the pleasure spikes, toes curling as the words in your mouth muddle.

"fuck, fuck-" Simon closes his eyes because it's so fucking erotic watching you cum. but he can't escape it, your pussy milks every bit of him, coaxing the roar in his ears to drown every thought he's had of pulling out.

he wants to maintain some semblance of control. one of you has to be rational about this. but no amount of reasoning will ever be as good as fucking you without protection.

the lewd sounds become louder and louder the more he grabs your hips and ruts wildly into you until your orgasm melts into another one, until it triggers his own. his hiss cuts through the air when his hips stutter as tries to pull out, but it's already too late. your cunt's too hot and too tight to let him go anywhere far and his hips draw back in and out while his cum spirts out before he can even think about it.

his long drawn "fuck" echoes through the room when he gives up, falling victim to the pleasure, letting his cum flood your pussy.

[prttylilkittn]

“You’re fucking mine” as I fuck my cum into you over & over

[prttylilkittn]

pretty girl, sweet girl, babygirl, good girl, my girl…

[prttylilkittn]

online communities are so strange because people slip away so easily. you can be on here for years, folding people you've never met into the fabric of your daily life, and then they disappear, leaving only ghost posts scattered across tumblr behind. or their blog stays dormant, for weeks, months, years, until you're only still following them because you remember that they love sunflowers or they were kind to you when they didn't have to be or the last thing they posted was sad and raw and you still worry about them sometimes.

and sometimes they come back when you least expect it, years later, even, and there's this sudden rush of relief like there you are, there you are, even though you barely knew each other.

there's a strange kind of love to it. i don't know you and i want to hold your hand across miles and time zones and oceans. i can still see the imprint of you in this community you left. you don't anyone will notice or care when you're gone, but we notice and we care and we wish you well.

i hope you're all okay out there. i hope the sun is shining on your face and you are breathing deeply. i miss you.

[prttylilkittn]

Me at work frfr. Just irritated at all times

Easily irritated reader trying to shoo König away

Trying to shove your colonel away because you're a little brat and because you are very displeased with him...it won't work that well, of course. this guy is a powerhouse by definition, so no matter how many times you're trying to punch him and to get him to leave, he won't budge...you're doing something on your computer? He is right here, ready to put you on his lap and cling to you like a lost puppy while you're typing something. You just want to eat in peace? He will show up with his dinner, far nicer than whatever slop they are serving you just so he could feed you by a spoon and laugh as you bite into the poor utensil and try to take the bowl away from him so you could feed yourself. Konig soon finds out that one of the quickest ways of getting you relaxed and to make you shut up is to start fingering you. You can't shoo him away while he is knuckle-deep in your pussy, and he knows you well enough to press all the right buttons and drive you crazy. He flicks your clit between his calloused fingertips, and you shake down a moan. You don't want to be that girl and pull down your defenses so easily, but he knows what he is doing. Irritatingly so. Your colonel is a fucking snake in disguise because everyone knows him like this a bit stand-off-ish dude. Like a creepy guy who is actually pretty fine and chill, just a bit quiet. You know his real side thought - a man who is not afraid of pushing you in the nearest supply closet and fuck you next to the old machine oil cans because you were glaring at him from across the room angrily, and he needed to fuck that irritation out of you. Konig likes your best when you're out of breath, too tired to move and to act, when you can only stare at him in a trance. He likes to tire you down, so you'd allowed him to be all clingy and gross - to make out with you in his office, in the colonel's quarters, on the shooting range while no one was around. You're such a frustrated little thing; he can't help but want to squish you like a toy.