#be a bough tit

[ladyofpandemonium]

guess who finally gave herself an excuse to buy books she’s already read on ebook/audiobook? ME.

[abyssal808]

S1 Soulmate Au prompt inspired by @subbaculture 's prompt wherein "Eddie learns Tengwar just to be special and so Steve's been kicking around with "What's Kickin', Sexy?" on his body

What Tommy Hagan hadn’t been blessed with in terms of intelligence. God - in his allegedly infinite wisdom - had seen fit to redistribute into shoulder width.

Tommy, in turn, swanned around Hawkin’s High shoulder-checking every freak, geek and nerd into nearby lockers; with the kind of wingspan better suited to weirdly proportioned monkeys.

Hellfire members were no stranger to it. Two weeks ago Hagan had run into Gareth hard enough to leave a bruise. A “bump” with enough force behind it that he’d bounced off the lockers and landed on the floor.

Which, fine, two could play at that game. Even if Hagan could barely get his hand off Carol’s tits to realize there were counter-moves to be made at all.

A grade A dick move, even if it was also incredibly boring and pedestrian. The kind of thing jocks who barely had two braincells to rub together saw as peak comedy. Giggling like a cross between a group of cavemen and a flock of pre-school girls whenever their ring-leader du jour started herding freaks like a neurotic border collie.

“Watch it, freak.” Hagan hissed, skirting around Eddie without bothering to shove him at all. Giving a wide berth to whatever zone of contagious freak cooties being Eddie Munson brought to the table.

Behind him, Gareth - blocked from the rest of the hall by Eddie’s leather jacket, in a way only freshies were short enough to pull off - buried a laugh in a cough, muffled into the heel of his hand. Not missing the way that even Hagan - the most infamous asshole of them all - looked ready to bolt as soon as Eddie waved him off in a jaunty salute.

Victory tasted sweet and electric. Fizzing under his skin the way Wayne’s Miller Lites would bubble in the back of his throat, whenever Eddie stole a sip from the half open cans in the back of their fridge. It made him stupid in a way those brief tastes of beer hadn’t managed to yet.

Being The Freak came with perks. An untouchable radius that left Eddie drunk with power. Riding the high of knowing that maybe Highschool didn’t have to suck all the time. That he could play at being a rabid guard dog for the lost little sheep of the world, rail against dickheads like Hagan and win.

Maybe he could use it to plead temporary insanity for what he did next. Riding the high into a really, spectacularly stupid idea.

Everyone had their words.

Eddie’s were tucked away, hidden along the curve of his rib. A curly chicken scratch that mixed print and cursive into a barely legible mess.

‘Is that like, yiddish?’

A weird-ass question, until Eddie had pulled an all nighter on a now infamous school night, falling in love with Middle earth. Head filled with nothing but the dark halls of Khazad-dûm, the sweeping boughs of Lothlórien.

Speak friend and enter.

Pedo mellon a minno.

He’d traced the words over and over. Thrilled by the lilt, the cadence, the beautiful rise and fall of consonants no one else would understand.

Setting his heart there and then on the dorkiest greeting anyone could have come up with. But hey, it was original, which was half the battle people went through when picking soulmate greetings.

He’d gone through several variations. Always in Sindarin, because why the hell not.

People usually saved them, tucked them far away from casual conversation. Bizarre phrases, always non-sequitour, brought out only for special occasions. That lightning strike of instant attraction. People you could see yourself connecting with. Hoping they would be a part of you as much as you were theirs.

He couldn’t see himself connecting with Tommy Hagan in a million years. Not even if they waited in that hallway until the heat death of the universe.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t terrorize him with the possibility.

“What’s Kickin’ Sexy?”

He yelled after Hagan’s retreating back, with its fuck-off wide shoulders; elvish mangled, but passable. Enjoying the rictus of horror on his face, going from anger to fear and back again.

He shifted on his heel, pushing Gareth further behind him in case things got ugly. Herding him back towards Jeff with little bumps, as both of them tried to muscle down their cackling. Nerdy enough to piece together the gist of what Eddie had been hollering about. Even if Jeff was better at Quenya, because he was a weirdo and a purist about that kind of shit.

All in all, a job well done, assuming Hagan didn’t flip his shit and start throwing punches to assert dominance.

Or at least, it felt like it, until Harrington - trailing behind Hagan - sucked all the air out of the room. Hands on his hips, a furrow on his brow, blurting it out without even thinking about it.

“Is that like, Yiddish?”

You could have heard a pin drop.

Panic clamped around Eddie’s throat like a vice. The same way Gareth’s hand, tiny and tense - he had yet to hit his growth spurt - wrapped around the edge of Eddie’s leather jacket. Pushing past the waistband of his jeans to claw at skin.

The side that mattered, one they both knew had those words that wrapped around Eddie’s chest. Curving towards the sternum.

Whatever face he was making gave it away instantly.

Harrington’s face shuttered and fell. A whole host of micro expressions that passed through in a second before he scrubbed them away. A pair of shaking hands that rubbed at his eyes and dragged down his face. Peeking at Eddie through a gap in his fingers.

“Jesus Christ it’s you; isn’t it?”

Behind Eddie, Gareth tugged him half a step back, nails digging into his hip. Little half-moon crescents he barely felt now, but would find later.

“Steve?” The waver in Hagan’s voice would have been funny if it wasn’t nauseating.

Terrifying, when Steve waved him off and stepped towards Eddie. Jerky and halting, like a puppet with half it’s strings cut.

“I can’t fucking believe this Munson. You gotta tell me if it is.” Steve bit out, with a wobble that sounded too trembling and confused to be anger. Even if it would come later.

It was probably coming later.

Anger always got there in the end, with boys like Harrington. Sharp comebacks and sharper right hook always winning out, spurred on by that bone-deep, animal fear of losing your place in the social food chain.

King Steve didn’t seem worried it yet though. Adding to the bizarre hilarity of the situation as he undid his belt and untucked his shirt to the concerned shouts of everyone left in the hall, witnesses to this trainwreck.

If Eddie hadn’t been convinced he’d died and gone to purgatory a minute earlier. He would have been convinced there and then.

As Steve Harrington turned around, bunched his striped polo up high and his khaki’s down low. Stripping down to show the athletic curve of a hip. The dip of a waist that looked small next to his swimmer’s shoulders - almost wide enough to rival Hagan’s - a scattering of moles that dusted across his lower back, framing his mark.

There, on King Steve’s back, bracketed by dimples, low enough to count as a truly slutty tramp stamp sat Eddie’s words. The swooping curves of Tengwar branded into his skin.

“What’s kickin’, Sexy?”

[moondirti]

charcoal

pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.6k summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)

“Sit still.”

A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.  

Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you. 

He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush. 

Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.

Huh– W-What’re you doing? 

Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it. 

Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.

You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you. 

He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers. 

It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene. 

Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips. 

“Nng-! Christ,” 

“What'd I tell ya?” 

“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.” 

“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.” 

“That’s gross.” 

“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.” 

But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck. 

You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have. 

You just found he doesn’t prefer it.

A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car. 

It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.

Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper. 

Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.

He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes. 

God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries. 

Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.

But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree. 

You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth. 

The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs. 

It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain. 

Him. Him.

He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid. 

But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–

Oh.

Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat. 

Fuck.

A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful. 

Enticing. 

You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs. 

You speak before you begin to process it all. 

“We’ll be here for a while.” 

Stupid, silly girl. 

He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess. 

In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week. 

“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.

Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning. 

“Gotta save some for next time.” 

“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”

“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift. 

“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–”  A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?” 

You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants. 

Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word. 

Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip. 

And it all goes to hell from there. 

Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him. 

It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants. 

“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…” 

“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.” 

“Please.” 

And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea  (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips. 

You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon. 

Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say– 

Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him. 

Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.

“Fuck.”

“Feart, now?” 

His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up. 

He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.” 

Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose. 

His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again: 

“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”

A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary. 

“Done?” 

You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch. 

“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.” 

“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away. 

“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.” 

“The glow?” 

“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”

“You’re mad.” 

The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.

“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”

Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt. 

This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons. 

He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again. 

The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever. 

“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”

He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations. 

“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.” 

The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close. 

You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean. 

You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night. 

You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone. 

Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I? 

You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.

Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny. 

“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.” 

A growl. “Shut it. That’s all you.”

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[hornytome]

birthday sex hits DIFFERENT. She had on this cute lingerie dress i bough her, and these little pink panties.

We started out with some light kissing and touching, but i wanted to put her in sub space sooooo bad.

I had her lay across my lap with her dress hiked up, and laid into her with the paddle. She looked so relaxed and blissed out as i switched between cheeks, giving them kisses and biting here and there. When the stimulation became a bit much, i told her to get on her knees. She settled on the edge of the bed, and god, those massive eyes an long lashes stared up at me and i swear to god i fell even more in love with her, watching those lips stretch over my cock. I love watching her little tongue peek out and lick the tip of my cock.

I knew she was fucking dripping at this point, and I couldn’t help myself when i hauled her up from the floor and threw her onto the bed.

I love love love fucking her in the mating press, hovering over her and hearing her pussy make those wet noises while i fuck into her. It was so good, i said hi to her in a little voice and she couldn’t help but moan out hi, over and over again.

I could stare at her pink little pussy for hours, its like this deep, primal urge to bury my face in it. When its wet, i just want to lay down there and lick it and kiss it, over and over again.I’d stay down there forever if she let me.

We swapped to cowgirl, and seeing her over me is a religious experience. Seeing her little tits bounce up and down, the swell of her tummy and the curve of her hips, the long column of her torso stretched out above me. I love the shape of her body.

She dropped the line that always goes straight to my cock—“put a baby in me.” and hell, my hips started bucking faster and faster into her, like maybe if i try hard enough i could actually come inside of her. put a baby in my girl.

She was riding me and fucking screaming, what i would do to actually be able to feel my cock inside of her. Sometimes she says that if i had a cock she’d be down there 24/7, and that literally makes me pulse down there.

On special occasions, we like to cum together. I don’t usually moan, but when i do her breath hitches and she starts dripping. She LOVES when i moan. We decided to do that for my birthday. She came so fucking loudly.

Sex is always amazing with us, but something about this time was special. We had no time constraint, we were both relaxed and so turned on. She was so gorgeous. It was the perfect birthday gift.

[welldonebeca]

The Pump (I)

Summary: When you start producing milk too early into your pregnancy, you and Dean are introduced to a special piece of equipment. And a new kink. WC: 1.6k words Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Vaginal fingering. Dirty talk. Smut. Degrading kink. Lactation kink. 

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Masterlist

You fidgeted with the hem of your gown, uncertain as you waited for your doctor to come in as Dean held your other hand.

You see, things were… weird.

Worrying weird, not funny weird.

You had been mated to Dean for a few years now.

It was a very cute story, if you could say so yourself. Dean had always pined for you since high school, but he was a player. He worked at his family’s farm and he always had a different girl at his hip.

Now, you may not be that bright, but you weren’t stupid. So, you denied his advances over and over again for years!

Until he got a ring on your finger, your teeth mark on his neck, and a contract that said he couldn’t take any other Omega without your written consent, punishable by divorce, chemical separation, and everything he owned and was supposed to inherit passing on to you.

Oh, the wonders of having a prenup lawyer,

Most Omegas you knew would be lucky if their Alphas didn't make them accept multiple Omegas for their pack, but your Dean was amazing, loyal to the end, and always said you were a special girl.

Not that you even understood what he meant with that.

You two had been trying for pups since the moment you mated, but now that you were finally pregnant, something strange was happening.

"Sweetheart, you gotta relax," he whispered to you.

You whined, scratching at your sore chest.

"But they feel so itchy!"

When you found out you were pregnant, you had very modest b-cup tits. But now, just under three months into it, you were now a d-cup.

And they felt like they were still growing!

Your nipples were swollen and your back ached the whole time. You had tried to power through but your Alpha was very worried and convinced you to see a doctor.

Who was finally here, thank goodness.

"I'm sorry for the delay," Doctor Gabriel apologised. "We had a bit of an issue back with the documents. Thank you for going ahead and undressing, Mrs Winchester."

Dean squeezed your hand and your doctor raised his head, eyes widening in surprise when he saw you.

“We just wanted to hurry this along,” your alpha explained to him. “She’s been in pain for almost a week now.”

“Well, I can see from the last time we saw each other there have been two massive changes,” your doctor tried to joke, maybe to lighten the mood.

You pouted.

“This is my fourth new bra and it’s already too tight!” you lamented. “I don’t know what’s happening! I don’t even have a bump yet!”

“Well, you know, your body will change to accommodate your baby” he explained, stepping toward you. “Early lactation is common.”

You pouted a little. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, though. Right?

“I’m going to do a physical exam, but we’ll need to remove your gown,” he prepared you. “Is that alright?”

You nodded, untying the front of the gown and facing forward, knowing to give him full access.

His gloved hands tested your breasts, first looking for any signs of lumps or anything, but even his gentle but firm professional grip was too much for your body.

You whimpered in pain and gasped as your tits started to leak.

Oh, no!

Your cheeks burned. Oh, how embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised quickly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry, you’re fine,” Gabriel reassured you, but your heart ached at the sight of so much lost milk dribbling down your chest.

You wished you could do anything with it. Babies in hospitals sometimes needed milk, you know?

“This has been happening since a few weeks ago,” Dean tried to explain. “We tried to store it with some pumps but… well…”

You had broken two pumps already. You had too much milk.

“Oh, yeah, that store-bought equipment will not help with this, I’m afraid,” doctor Gabriel pointed out.

He pulled his hands away and took off his wet gloves, a little frowny.

“You must understand, we don’t want you to stop producing milk. Your child is going to need it once it is born.”

Of course, you understood that. You were an omega your body was purpose was to feed your young! You just wish you could do it now…

“When you called me and explained the situation, I reached out to my brother, Michael," he told you two. "Now you may call this bias, but our family actually owns a business for your kind of situation.”

You stared at him, confused, as he reached into a briefcase and pulled out another pump set, but this one looked much more industrialized.

What did his brother have to do with your milk?

"You know, hyperactive milk production is more common than people believe. Omegas usually have a few pups before it happens, and it is a way for the body to feed their whole family," he explained. "But sometimes it happens to first-time pregnant Omegas in small packs when they are… especially active, sexually speaking, so my brother saw a business opportunity."

You're flushed, and he put the heavy pump in Dean's hand.

"These are made for her situation. They make the pumping process twice as fast, and have double the storage space," he told you. "May I test it on you, ma'am?"

Dean hesitated by your side before you could answer.

"I don't know, that doesn't look comfortable."

"They are," he assured you two.

You put a hand over Dean's, feeling your gown already soaked. You knew you wouldn't stop dripping until you were empty, now.

"Please, Alpha," you pleaded with him. "I don't want any more waste, and you know this won't stop."

Dean conceded, sighing.

"Go on, then."

Doctor Gabriel put the pump on your breast, showing you two how to adjust it, and you gasped when it clicked to place and started to work and collect your mill on its own, filling up the big bottles.

"Here, she these to clean her up," he gave your husband a box of tissues.

“So what should we do now? Just keep storing this milk until it expires?"

You whimpered at Dean’s harsh words but it was true. How would you deal with so much milk?

“Well, you’re free to choose to do whatever you wish," he told you. "We have a reliable system in breast milk donation. I’ve monitored you even before your pregnancy and can give your approval that your milk is safe for consumption. You can donate it, even sell it."

Dean’s eyes twinkled with the last part.

He worked hard on your farm, and would never turn down a profit. His father had more livestock, but you were more than well off now, and didn’t need it, so you could focus on just farming - plus, you hated the butchery of the poor animals.

You couldn’t tell if you were turned on or frightened by that side of your husband, but with the pump working on your tits, your cunt started to get wet, and the room stunk up quickly.

Before you could apologise, doctor Gabriel spoke.

“That’s perfectly normal, too,” he assured you. “I’ll just add the machine to your tab. Would you like to calm your Omega before leaving?”

You blinked at him, surprised, and Dean cleared his throat.

“If I could, please.”

He nodded.

“Just don’t make too much of a mess,” doctor Gabriel instructed you.

The moment the door closed, Dean looked at you hungrily.

“Lay on your back and spread your legs,” he commanded you. “Wide.”

You obeyed.

The machine was still working, a God, your cunt was leaking so, so much

“What’s got you all wet, huh?” he asked, his hand reaching down to spread your pussy. “Something you want to tell your Alpha? I thought you were a good Omega.”

You whined.

“Feels good,” you squirmed. “Dean…”

Your tits were so sensitive, you didn’t know this would feel so good.

“You like being milked?” he hummed, pushing two fingers into you. “No baby to feed, but you still want to be used.”

You moaned.

Yes. You wanted it, you needed that so much.

He moved his thumb to rub against your clit, and you trembled.

“Don’t worry, your alpha will take care of you,” he assured you. “Might even make a pretty penny too, little Omega.”

That made you cum. Loudly and embarrassingly, shaking and gushing both to his hand and the pump.

“Fuck,” Dean growled.

You came and came as he fucked you with his fingers and the pump worked on you, until your breasts were empty and you were a sloppy mess.

Your husband chuckled.

“Such a pretty pathetic Omega,” he taunted, reaching up to remove the pumps and you whined. “You’re all dry for now, princess. But don’t worry, knowing your tits, you’re gonna be full soon tonight.”

You squirmed, flushing. Other people could find it weird, but you loved, loved, loved when Dean spoke like that to you.

And he knew that very well.

Your husband helped you clean up, and slipped your dress around your body, but didn’t give you your bra or panties back.

“I don’t want you sitting in your mess, silly girl,” he said, putting them in the bag filled with extra milk bags doctor Gabriel had left for you.

You waited as he transferred the liquid to the bags, and put the pumps into their suitcase, picking up a card and showing it to you.

“Shurley Equipments,” he read it. “Well, look at that. I guess we are going to be calling them soon enough.”

You nodded, following him out and to your car.

This was going to be quite the change.

. . .

"The Pump" is the first part of "The Milk series". To read its sequels "The Pack" - a Sam x Reader x Dean x Jess foursome - "The Pack" - a Castiel x Reader x Dean - and "The Family" - a Jess x Reader & Sam x Reader - subscribe to my page! It's just $2 a month and helps me a lot through these hard times.

. . .

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[derangedrhythms]

Leave a lover with his thoughts for twenty-four hours and this is what will happen: At the salt mines of Salzburg, they throw a leafless wintry bough into one of the abandoned workings. Two or three months later they pull it out covered with a shining deposit of crystals. The smallest twig, no bigger than a tom-tit’s claw, is studded with a galaxy of scintillating diamonds. The original branch is no longer recognizable. What I have called crystallization is a mental process which draws from everything that happens new proofs of the perfection of the loved one. 

Stendhal, from ‘On Love’ quoted in ‘Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay’ by Anne Carson

[lix-ables]

Okay might be a little weird but anyways so I got this idea I just Bough my first ever dildo and I was thinking chan seeing that you bought one and helping you use it for the first time?

hii my love im sorry i got to this so so late, but omg your mind?? this??? i promise you im going to think about this for a long long time. and dont worry its not weird at all !!

chan's the kind of boyfriend who'd get excited about anything you're excited about. so when you show him the new toy you bought, from the way he looks at you, and down to the pink dildo in your hand, his eyes sparkle. with that cocky look on his face, a smirk resting on his lips, he'd pull you onto him, letting you settle against his lap, before starting to press soft and small kisses to your skin, until he pulls away that is, just to hear a whine leave you. he knows you're liking it, it's too late for both of you now.

now, he's always wanted to see how you'd look when you're playing with yourself. sure, he's seen you touch yourself, he's seen your back arch and your toes curl by the way your fingers rub your clit, hoping, wishing it was him instead. many times he's helped you too. this time was no different - you want to come, sure you can. but you're going to have to do it yourself. especially when he knows you're too needy to even think about anything but the words that left his mouth, he'd be the first to say it.

"baby, i was thinking. i've been wanting to see you use that little toy of yours," he'd start to say, one day, walking up behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist as he whispers. "little?" you chuckle, turning around to face. "that 'little toy' of mine is quite big you know." "it may be big, sweetheart, but it doesn't fill you up like i do, does it now?" with you humming a response, chan pulls you with him to your shared room, whispering to you to bring out the dildo. the look he gives you when he sees your small frame reach to bring it out, your body turning to collide with his, just as he thinks how you wearing only his shirt and a pair of panties, with your nipples all perky - nothing could be more perfect in his eyes. easy access for him, really, he thinks, as he hovers over your body, his fingers leaving trails of the slightest touches to your skin, lifting the shirt up as he makes his way to your tits. "i'm sure you wouldn't mind me helping you, right? you're not going to get shy on me are you?" "no promises, channie-" "well, then i can stop everything, right?" he lets out before grabbing the dildo from your hand, his fingers wrapping around the toy as he lets it trail your skin, pushing your thighs apart with it, making you sigh under him. "please don't-" "don't what, baby?" "don't stop," you sigh, your hand coming to rest on his hair, fingers tugging on his scalp a little, making him hum in response. "i don't plan on stopping, darling," chan smiles, looking at your expression when the dildo touches your clit, the tip rubbing slow patterns to the bundle of nerves, making you shut your eyes. "until you've come on this pretty toy of yours until you've coated it when i push it deep inside you, and until i feel satisfied, you're going to take everything i give you. yes?"

[roughentumble]

MoS is a movie that is too long, and is also largely bad(the military apologism is. So. why did they kill so many civilians and why was it considered chill), but it had pieces i really liked all buried in the little corners and i hoard them like a squirrel and plant them in the fertile soil of my mind so i can unearth them for winter, and the ones i forget sprout into seedlings that then become massive oaks and shield me from the cold with their warm loving boughs, and at the end of the day isnt that what superman media is about anyway. also henry cavill big tits wet

[originemesis]

@kugel-bitch from xxx

Close. But no. As if propelled by some no-longer-dormant predatory drive, Lute has vanished out of Adam's immediate vicinity to chase a hapless red squirrel through the underbrush swaddling the roots of the surrounding trees (which she is also very much tempted to climb make no mistake about that). Dipping and ducking through flowering bushes and ticklish reeds, she looses sight of the frazzled rodent when she gets her boot tangled up in a tendrilous vine creeping through the foliage and she takes an unceremonious tumble right into a patch of yellow flowers.

"Eden..." Rolling onto her back, she lets that reality sink in for a moment. "It's...—" The wellspring of all life on earth. The high seraphim's magnum opus. The place where he drew his first breath, took his first steps, where he first experienced love and loss and everything in between. And he still comes here, after all these years? Does it not hurt? To be reminded of all the wonderful things that were taken from him? "—upside down." Lute stares at the clouds, which she's used to bolstering the ground that she walks on, floating aaaaall the way up there in the all encompassing blue of the sky, just barely veiling the big, shiny ball of light from her view. It speaks for itself, the way she's miserably failing to conjure up an answer to his query. Being here with him, it feels...intimate, on a level she's not sure she's ever experienced before and it's got her feeling a little bit sheepish to be quite honest. Like she's encroaching on something deeply sacred. "...I've never seen anything like it..." She cants her head and transfixes him with a gaze that is all pupils, brimming with nothing but pure, innocent wonderment, which is an expression that almost looks out of place on her delicate but typically dour features. "...I don't think I'll ever see anything like it again..." Slowly, she eases herself up onto her elbows, drawing a deep breath of the aromatic air. It feels notably heavier in her lungs than the air in heaven, but not in an unpleasant way. Just...different. very different. All of it. "How does it feel...for you, I mean? Being here? Do you miss it?"

Oh. That's what she was doing. Whelp-...unsurprising, really. "Careful with the wildlife, Danger Tits- they don't make rabies shots for angels last I checked." He called over in his typical flavor of commander's reproach when it came to his lieutenant- which was mostly just him egging her on under the guise that he actually did his job. With his talon still curling and teasing the air with subtle adjustments to the area- a shifted bough here and there to let the moonlight through, he watched her chase down the terrorized tree rat with the same dogged determination of an exorcist trailing after a scuttling demon, amusement edging along the uneasy smile from his question before until it split into it's usual jagged grin. What an actual psycho...he loved that for her.

He figured it was only a matter of time til she discovered roots- things that seemed extra foreign to those with wings, and when she took her faceplant and subsequent roll through the goldenrods, the tips of his grin twitched and he hunkered down briefly in order to spring up and slowly walk down a winding staircase of fog patches that appeared under each foot until he took the final one back onto the ground at her side. "Oh yeah - and roots. Those are fun, huhhh?"

With an endearing cluck or two, he waited for her to collect her thoughts (and her bearings for that matter) while he took to stretching his wings, the gold in his feathers causing the yellow flowers to look almost sickly in comparison when the silver light of the moon gilded their edges. He'd seen a pair kind of like his now when he'd crashed here originally - belonging to the so called bouncers of the place, and he knew they'd bump into them eventually the longer they lingered. Best way to light a fire under the ass of indecision, he supposed.

"...you can roll over, y'now? Just a suggestion- probably the best one-" A 'pfft' escaped him the way she seemed both so eager to take in all the details around them and yet they only weighed her down more in her wonderment. So dopey... a brief twinge o cringe rose in his chest briefly recalling how much he'd felt the same way once all at once there was him among all this and no one just yet nearby to explain the intricacies of shit and why shit was the best. Of course, on her it's kind of cute in a way. Maybe someone had thought that about him once.

Her admittance shivers his feathers out like a chill wind passing through and he gives them a beat, knocking yellow blooms off stems at her and into her hair. His gaze fell to study the side of her face and the way the moonlight caught it and cast a gilded edge along the sight of pure, unblemished wonder. That was something he never expected to see again, but angels were...lucky like that. "Neither did I. But..." He paused, the thought hammering around in his helmet like a sinner trying to escape hell's pot. He lets it boil for now.

A shake of his head later frees his gaze from her marveling and he settles it on what little of the horizon can be seen, sprinkled with stars like the fragments found in halos. The boiled thought might be quiet, but it's definitely causing the temperature change in his visor which sports the faintest cross hatching of yellow lines indicating extra heat beneath. "I mean...kinda not so mind-blowing after the first playthrough? But I guess it's something more than just mid since you're here too." An awkward feather flutter followed along with a few explanatory coughs. "I get to see you fall on your ass chasing rats and shit- what's not based about that?" His shoulders hunched in frustration and he drew his gaze down as he hunkered over her, studying her face again from his position on high.

"Hey-"

Talons emerged from the scalloped edges of robe as he offered her a hand up. "Everything here is... kinda private? Weird- most people have skeletons in their closets, and I got a garden in mine. Not so metal of me- right?" Another shake of his head, and he was fanning his wings out and slightly curling them in around her with a softer chirp to share in the safe space of a golden cage with her inside it with him. "I didn't think I'd see something like Eden again, Lute-" But.

"...but then you came along."

And unlike Eden and what it had been to him and never could be again, she was still there. Would she always be? "So I had to show you that- what it really means to have you here...with me." He'd leaned in, just enough to ghost a preen along the edge of one of her wings, something in the atmosphere shifting like radio frequencies colliding until the very acoustics of the garden seemed tuned in and targeting the two strange creatures within its boughs. "There's something else I've been meaning to tell you...if you'll hear me out?"

[breakfast-at-timothys]

Metro-Land is a slogan first coined by the Metropolitan Railway in about 1915, for promotional purposes; and later used as the title of a BBC documentary celebrating suburban life that grew up in the early 20th century around the Metropolitan Railway in the area north-east of London.

The documentary was made in 1973. It lasted some 50 minutes and featured a narration, partly in verse, by then Poet Laureate, Sir John Betjeman; his commentary, interwoven with black-and-white film shot from a Metropolitan Railway train in 1910.

Betjeman, whose sexuality can best be described as bisexual, was educated at Marlborough and later Magdalen College, Oxford. He had friendships with both W.H. Auden and Lord Alfred 'Bosie' Douglas (of Oscar Wilde fame). Whilst at Oxford, he famously brought his teddy bear, Archibald Ormsby-Gore, up to Magdalen with him; the memory of which inspired his Oxford contemporary, Evelyn Waugh, to include Sebastian Flyte's teddy, Aloysius, in Brideshead Revisited.

For the serious devotees of tradition: the Harrow School Song is heard accompanying scenes filmed in the School, and scenes showing one of Harrow's stained-glass windows also appear, to the accompaniment of 'The Sunny Side of the Street'.

Always time for one more tradition: 'Tit Willow' is played during scenes showing Grim's Dyke at Harrow Weald: the place where W.S. Gilbert (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame), tragically drowned in a pond in 1911. 'Tit Willow', being a song from Mikado (by Gilbert and Sullivan). Its use in the documentary as an ironic reference to Gilbert's unfortunate misadventure is clear: ('He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, Singing “Willow, tit-willow, tit-willow”, And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, tit-willow, tit-willow, He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he plunged himself into the billowy wave).

*

Metroland (Betjeman):

Harrow-on-the-Hill:

WHEN melancholy Autumn comes to Wembley And electric trains are lighted after tea The poplars near the Stadium are trembly With their tap and tap and whispering to me, Like the sound of little breakers Spreading out along the surf-line When the estuary’s filling With the sea.

Then Harrow-on-the-Hill’s a rocky island And Harrow churchyard full of sailors’ graves And the constant click and kissing of the trolley buses hissing Is the level to the Wealdstone turned to waves And the rumble of the railway Is the thunder of the rollers As they gather up for plunging Into caves.

There’s a storm cloud to the westward over Kenton, There’s a line of harbour lights at Perivale, Is it rounding rough Pentire in a flood of sunset fire The little fleet of trawlers under sail? Can those boats be only roof tops As they stream along the skyline In a race for port and Padstow With the gale?

*

Baker Street Station Buffet:

Early Electric! With what radiant hope Men formed this many-branched electrolier, Twisted the flex around the iron rope And let the dazzling vacuum globes hang clear, And then with hearts the rich contrivance fill’d Of copper, beaten by the Bromsgrove Guild.

Early Electric! Sit you down and see, ‘Mid this fine woodwork and a smell of dinner, A stained-glass windmill and a pot of tea, And sepia views of leafy lanes in Pinner – Then visualize, far down the shining lines, Your parents’ homestead set in murmuring pines.

Smoothly from Harrow, passing Preston Road, They saw the last green fields and misty sky, At Neasden watched a workmen’s train unload, And, with the morning villas sliding by, They felt so sure on their electric trip That Youth and Progress were in partnership.

And all that day in murky London Wall The thought of Ruislip kept him warm inside; At Farringdon that lunch hour at a stall He bought a dozen plants of London Pride; While she, in arc-lit Oxford Street adrift, Soared through the sales by safe hydraulic lift.

Early Electric! Maybe even here They met that evening at six-fifteen Beneath the hearts of this electrolier And caught the first non-stop to Willesden Green, Then out and on, through rural Rayner’s Lane To autumn-scented Middlesex again.

Cancer has killed him. Heart is killing her. The trees are down. An Odeon flashes fire Where stood their villa by the murmuring fir When ”they would for their children’s good conspire.” Of their loves and hopes on hurrying feet Thou art the worn memorial, Baker Street

[woodlandtrust]

Tit for Tat - Christopher Morley

I often pass a gracious tree Whose name I can't identify, But still I bow, in courtesy It waves a bough, in kind reply. I do not know your name, O tree (Are you a hemlock or a pine?) But why should that embarrass me? Quite probably you don't know mine.

[slasherholic]

Asa's beach fit (which he never uses, but has just incase of "emergencies") inclues swim shorts he bough age 26 and has since...Comfortably outgrown...What Im saying here is that I need to see this mans thick thighs and fat ass is very wet, just too small shorts that lift in the inner thigh with every step he makes (Bonus points for wet tshirt/shirtless tits)

I wanna shove him into a pool just once. I wanna see him soggy

he climbs out in the hottest way possible by ignoring the stairs and using just his arms to hoist himself up on the pool ledge with his wet shirt sleeves clinging to his biceps :’)

[quzen]

i may be cringe but i am free and i love the silly if i actually bough tit tho i would never fuckin knwo peace because 7 year olds on Roblox or mean af

[thestateofardadreaming]

A golden sunset behind a colorful foliage... The great tits' sweet tinkling voices, two robins singing and competing for the same bough.

How peaceful. How timeless...

The golden hour is upon us.

[corvidiss]

For the assumption ask game: Adelaide is fond of birds! 🦅

(good LORD this took forever to answer it's been almost two months i am SO sorry, i wanted to do a drawing for it and i tried multiple times but never managed to get further than a circle lmao so i decided to go the writing route instead, i hope you don’t mind!! <3)

~

Adelaide is sitting on the moss-softened steps outside the cottage. The day is pleasantly warm for what she’s used to on the island, the sun brushing land and sea with beams of gentle heat from behind the dappled patterns of clouds.

“Yes!” she smiles, lighting up at your question. “They’re ever so– Well, I think they’re gorgeous!” She points to a trio of songbirds in the young apple tree beside the house and her smile widens. “They do startle me sometimes,” she admits, watching the birds in the apple boughs. “That’s alright though, because I startle them too, at times.”

For a minute or two, she falls silent, watching the songbirds – long-tailed tits, you think – flit about between the tree’s young leaves. Then her attention sharpens; she tilts her head. You listen for a moment and catch what she heard: the long, high wail of a buzzard overhead.

She points, and you follow her finger to two distant shapes far above, circling drowsily on currents of warm air. Round and round they go, drifting gradually across the sky, turning effortlessly on the wind. As you watch, another buzzard joins them and their plaintive calls paint the moment.

“Yes,” she says, smiling, after you’ve forgotten you’d been talking. “Yes, I am fond of birds.”

~

(please feel free to send more things like this people, now i’ve worked out that doing drawings for every ask isn’t exactly economical for my energy levels i should be able to answer more quickly fjhkjfdsj)

[josies-not-suicidal-now]

There was a restlessness in her. She scrolled like any other day, but something in her was disatisfied, it gnawed at her. The feeling that she might never gain any improvement on this life, that she would scroll herself to her grave. She saw this wonderful comic about transfeminine love and how a trans girl loving a trans girl actually involves four people since the boys they once were are involved as well. Rereading it gave her a sense of nostalgia, of the younger trans girl she once was, and the trans girl she had hoped to become. The feeling pulled at the restlessness dissolved it slowly like a pill in water, but the restlessness persisted. How many times was she bound to reread this comic? Would she ever experience the emotional resolution of its final panel?

Underneath the panel the comic's creator was offering merch for it, oh fuck yeah Josie thought. She clicked on the link and looked at the website, there was a certain horror to it, that there were services with the explicit purpose of creating merch for random tiny creators like this. She wanted a hoodie, it had trans girls kissing on it, so she must have it, the restlessness demanded it. It cost 50€, no doubt the vast majority of which would be spent on lining the pockets of the owners of the website. She mentally reviewed her finances and knew she wouldn't be able to afford weed if she bough it. She sent the link to her newest "sugardaddy", and wrote "please daddy? :3". He was some divorced english dude who had moved to berlin a couple months earlier, when she had fucked him he had really wanted her to talk about how nice his dick was. It had kinda put her on the spot, really hadn't been very comfortable.

She thought about the workers who were going to get the other percentages of the 50€. Their working conditions were entirely unknown to her, their salaries, their rights, their relationships with their bosses, their governments. She didn't even know where they were. She imagined a sweaty Filipino man stood in a textile printing factory without air conditioning that smelled of paints and dyes, among other chemical industrial fumes. She imagined the workers on the cargo ship transporting her hoodie to her. She wondered if any of them would take the time to look at her hoodie and what any of them would think upon seeing it. Perhaps it was less cruel to foist the image of two cute girls kissing next to the shadow selves of the boys they once were, than it was to force them to transport ahegao shirts.

Her "sugardaddy" was responding. "Sure thing, darling ;)" He said, "When am I gonna get to see you again?" He asked, like as if he had to be polite. She wasn't interested in fucking him again, but that usually wasn't a problem. These men liked being depended on almost as much as the sex, and she didn't mind losing him, so long as she got her hoodie right now. Perhaps he needed a little encouragement.

She took off her hoodie which read "M.A.D. Magicians Against Data" and threw it at the corner of the room. She held a peace sign against her cheek and took a selfie with her tits out. She sent it to him with the caption "soon hopefully hehe XD"

When she never fucked him he probably would be too depressed about being duped to do anything about it, maybe he would come to her apartment and make a big stink at the front door, and bang on it, and shout and yell and annoy her roommate. That wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he would persist for so long that she would have to confront him, and he would beat her up, or rape her, or hurt her some other way. That would suck, but at least it would be gender affirming.

He was typing again. "You really can't wait to get this big dick in you again huh?"

Josie checked her bank account, he had sent the money, there was no reason to worry about writing a response.

Typing in her details to order this new hoodie she could feel the restlessness resolving itself. The future would be different than the present because today she didn't have a hoodie with trans girls kissing on it, and tomorrow she would. She could feel the gaze of Marx and Foucault disapproving at her from the heavens, for being so satiated by mere consumption. She could imagine Foucaults furrowed frustrated brow just below his gleaming bald head. She knew nothing about his ideas or if he would actually have cared about her relationship with commodities, but she knew he appeared in video essays often, so he was likely to agree with Marx.