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stararch4ngelqueen · 7 months

Text

Impatience

Time Written- 5:57 a.m

Jason Todd/fem!reader smut (yes, the helmet comes off)

His modulated rasps vertebrates along your back, fully plated muscles pressed firmly along against backbone, becoming the hard wall compared the soft mattress you were trapped against.

“How’s it feel, pretty girl? Feel good, huh? Fuuuck, thought of this pretty little pussy since the second I left. Just can’t help myself.”

Euphoric drops refused to stop trailing down your cheeks, blinding your vision from the silk pillow that caught most of your tears.

Six years ago, the idea of him using you as such erratic, heavily erotic stress relief would’ve made you wince with a furious blush.

You were enclosed in, too closed in to slip a hand down in between your sweaty body and the warm mattress to give your clit additional stimulation. Not that you particularly needed it.

His broad hips ground against your plush ass perfectly, heavy balls slapping against your sobbing cunt. The head of his dick perfectly brushing against your cervix nearly nonstop, drawing endless noises from your mouth, ranging from short yelps to loud, drawn out cries.

Red Hood; with a cock so good he knew just how to use it without even trying.

You didn’t go out to dinner the night before and have a man ogle at your choice of black slip dress, with thin silver chains for sleeves.

You didn’t stroll alongside Jason at a downtown Gotham park on a warm summer evening, catching attention via the faint sheen of sweat along your neck, decorating your faint show of cleavage from your tank top.

You most definitely didn’t rouse this man off the edge by your simple choice of sleepwear, a loose white shirt and a cherry, seductive red lace panty.

As if you didn’t purposely wear that for his viewing pleasure.

It wasn’t Jason being jealous, so to say. To put it politely, it was Jason being overbearing.

Chest nearly melted against your back, burly muscles keeping you trapped against soft cushion, his words contracting the brutality of his relentless pace.

“Please, baby,” he grunts, his modulated voice shooting firefly kisses along your skin. “Please, lemme use this pussy. Been a hard night.”

This could’ve happened after he dragged his heavy boots into a hot shower, but no. While he could’ve washed the night’s worth of sweat and grime off his body, yours was the only priority on his mind. All this beast of a man had done was pull grab you by your hips and adjust your body flat, yank himself free from his constrictive pants before stuffing his fat, aching cock between your thighs. His balls full and heavy after hours of aggravated patrol.

The grunt that rumbled through his modulated speaker forced a tingle of fresh slick to seep from your lips as he fucked your thighs, dampening that sexy underwear in seconds. A short chuckle followed after from feeling it, quickly filled out by another groan as he made do with hooking his finger through one of the lace flowers decorated along your ass, anchoring the hole large enough to fully rip the not so affordable fabric.

His gloved hands gripped hold of the back of your shirt collar, yanking the fabric apart in seconds, exposing your bare skin to the cool bedroom air. Scratchy, gloved hands rubbed along your over sensitive nipples before trailing downwards, quickly leaving muted fingerprints along your hips.

Four years of knowing him, one year of missing him, followed by another year of dating him, you knew very well by now that Jason wasn’t as patient as he presented and enforced himself to be.

No, especially not with you.

“Christ, that’s my good little girl, taking this dick like a champ.”

Devilish grunts against your freshly shampooed hair, his musk fully invading your senses as he straddles the back of your hips, bracing his dirty boots along your bedsheets as he fucks you like an expensive whore.

He drew climax after climax from you so very easily, catching your quivering cries in the palm of his gloved hand. Stale gunpowder filled your nose, his meaty forearm playing a rest to keep your head and neck supported.

You weren’t sure when exactly his helmet came off, never registering the dull thud of it carelessly tossed onto the pillow beside yours. Pale, milky eyes glared into yours, reminding you of the persona who’s hands crushed necks and broke bones, now using you as a pretty little cockslut he’d dote on for the rest of the morning after he’s positive you’re fully bred till sunrise.

He halts his persistent thrusting after your body settled into overstimulation, removing his palm to give you a chance to breathe. He didn’t completely stop, using his knees for leverage to grind his pelvis against you, the tip of his aching, perfectly angled cock brushing against all your sensitive spots perfectly.

His lightly stubbled cheek brushed against yours, his wet tongue licking the sickening saltiness of your sweat and tears, gutturally grunting from the lustful ambrosia your body provided him.

He makes a show of biting the tip of his gloved, middle finger out of the corner of your teary eye, spitting his glove off to the side before caressing your side, dipping his fingers underneath your stomach.

Just the slightest brush of his index finger against your long neglected clit made you buck your ass back against his hips, making Jason smirk at your involuntary, full bodied whimper.

“Think you got another one in ya, sweetheart?”

#Jason Todd #jason todd x y/n #Jason Todd smut #Jason Todd x reader smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #it’s smut #it’s good stuff #he’s my comfort character #for many reasons #got inspired by big burly Jason images

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seancekitsch · 16 days

Note

How about something with Vox and an assistant reader? I'm so excited your writing for Hazbin!

hehehe you have received: smut with fem reader

“I mean, do I have to hypnotize anyone if the marketing team is good? Darling, fire them all. Especially the ones I own. Make them squirm,” Vox talks, at you, not to you while you plug in the information on your V-Pad.

“Just squirm or flounder too?” you ask, not looking up at him either.

“Is that a fucking fish pun?” he turns on you, pushing his chair back from his desk.

“A synonym, Sir.”

You tap the screen a few times, filling his request and adding a bit of your own to it.

“Done. No severance package.”

You meet his gaze, smile toothy and wide.

“Devious bitch,” he muses, smiling just as wide, “Come to Daddy.”

You set the tablet down at the table near the door, smoothing out your skirt as you start to strut across the office, essentially modeling the outfit Vox had gotten designed for you. But before you can make it even a quarter of the way, Vox stops you with a look.

Right, how could you forget? You kick off your stilettos, a flash of the red bottoms against the navy carpet and you sink to your hands and knees; slowly, seductively crawling towards the overlord at his desk.

His screen glitches briefly, electrical current sparkling along the edges of him. He watches you fixated like a predator stalking his prey, yet you flourish under his scrutiny, proud and confident as your nails dig into the carpet and you make your way to the spot at his feet. Vox pats his lap, a silent invitation. There is no seat for you in this office, and thats on purpose. Vox always wants you on his lap, draped over him, straddling him, perched like a shiny trophy. Today you choose to straddle him, hiking up your skirt as you settle in facing him.

“Any panties?” He asks, and you roll your eyes.

“No point when I work for you,” you tease, settling yourself flush against him, bare against his lap. He’s already hard, because of course he is. When is Vox not hard if you’re in the room? It strokes your ego, the power you have over the overlord, the control you have over a powerful man.

“Seriously, where would I be without you?” he purrs, leaning in close and grabbing fistfuls of your ass.

“Hmm, probably struggling to keep your schedule?” you muse, nails raking down the front of his suit jacket.

Without warning, he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his hips like second nature at this point before he throws you unceremoniously down onto his desk, muscle memory stopping the back of your head from connecting to his keyboard. You’d learned that the hard way when this all started.

“Certainly wouldn’t be making a mess of my office,” he muses, his claws tracing down your front, teasing your cleavage and down your navel.

You reach for his belt buckle, making quick work of it.

“For the third time this week,” you say, always teasing him. Always pushing your boss’ buttons.

Vox hastily pushes your hands away, tugging his dress shirt out of his pants and undoing them enough to slide them down, his boxers coming with them. You gaze down at his cock, while fucking has become routine you’re always somewhat in awe of the size of him.

He’s quick to push your skirt up, bunching it around your waist without any care for the fabric. He’ll probably just buy you another one, so arch your back into his movements, letting him pull you into position while slots himself right where he needs to be. His eyes meet yours, screen bright and blinding. Sharp teeth in two identical smiles, and he pushes in.

You struggle to keep your eyes on his as you moan around the stretch, no matter how many times this happens it always catches your breath in your throat.

“Fffffuck yes,” Vox practically growls, voice modulator losing control as he bottoms out with your bodies fully connecting. He wastes no time setting a pace, hips snapping against yours, slightly upwards, hitting a truly amazing spot within you. You see stars, disoriented and already high on him him him.

Vox runs his claws along your hips, electrical currents running along your skin just strong enough to make your body twitch beneath him. His hands trail under your legs, hoisting them up against his chest to control you that much more as he leans over you.

“All mine, fuck, all mine,” Vox pants, speeding up his thrusts, rocking you further into the desk as his claws dig into your thighs to keep you flush against him. He grinds his pelvis into yours each time he bottoms out, sweet friction punctuated by featherlight sparks of electricity radiating from skin on skin. You nod eagerly, gritting your teeth, but that isn’t good enough for the CEO above you.

“Fuckin— say it! Say you’re mine,” he begs, his voice urgent and desperate.

“I’m— I’m—“

A moan cuts off anything you have to say, electrical pulses going straight to your cunt and frying your brain in the process.

“Gonna short circuit for me?” he teases now, and fuck he’s so confident. You’d like for once to have him writhing the way he does you. But your brain does indeed short circuit before you can dwell on that too much, your orgasm having snuck up on you, white hot intensity behind your eyes. You wail underneath him, your hands reaching out for his and prying his claws from your thighs. Instantly, he intertwines his fingers with yours, giving you stability as he fucks you through your orgasm. Vox groans as he spills into you only moments later, practically collapsing on top of you.

He stays there, with you folded in half, his length softening inside you, your fingers still tangled together.

“Can you say it now?” he asks, the edge of his screen resting against your shirt as it dims.

“I’m yours,” you confirm, “you needy prick.”

Vox laughs, loud and barking, and finally pushes himself off you. He’s incredibly gentle to pull out, to slowly unfold limbs and help you to sit up, letting you lean onto him.

“You know, I should really report you to HR for name calling,” Vox finally says, winking as he does.

It’s your turn to laugh, scoffing as you weakly slap at his chest.

“Right, and if you get me demoted I promise you that Peppermint couldn’t give you pussy half as good as this.”

Vox kisses you hard on the mouth, static crackling as screen touches lips.

Voxtech doesn’t even have an HR department.

#vox x reader #hazbin hotel vox x reader #vox smut

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the-scandalorian · 1 month

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Pairing: Din Djarin x female sex worker!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 3.1k Content Warnings: touch-starved Din; reader is blindfolded; smut Summary: Mando makes regular visits to the healing baths. Note: A big thank you to @frannyzooey for always enabling my depravity and finding the dope ass images for my header ❤︎

He always waits for you inside the door.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, when you’re surprised by the unexpected touch the first time. A light hand cups your elbow, guiding you to the middle of the room, until you can feel the smooth tiles that mark the edge of the sunken pool with your bare toes.

The marble is slick with condensation, heated by the same geothermal source that warms the spring water. The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil, of rose from the petals you know are strewn across the surface of the bath. Candles flicker languidly in the shadowy corners of the room, but you can’t detect any of their light.

When you lower yourself to the floor—carefully, blindly—he checks the tightness of the black silk wrapped around your eyes with gentle fingers. He reassures himself it’s secure, that you can’t see a thing through the fabric in the dark, hazy room. A reassurance he needs every time.

You come to expect it. To expect him.

He’s consistent. He’s hesitant.

It takes dozens of visits before he lets you join him in the bath. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze to the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.

When he inevitably says no, you sit behind him on a velvet cushion on the edge of the pool instead, swathed in the inky blackness of your blindfold, your feet dangling in the warm water, and work scented oils into his skin and tension out of his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his back, his chest. Your existence is reduced to tactile information, your world narrowed to the sensations in your hands—the textures at the tips of your fingers. The taut muscles of his shoulders, the raised scars that litter his arms and chest, the hair dusted over his pectorals, the callouses on his palms. All slick with water, slippery with massage oil.

The helmet stays on for the first handful of visits. You know by the modulated sound of his voice, by the brush of beskar against your wrist when you work a knuckle into the base of his stiff neck. It disappears somewhere around the tenth visit. When he meets you at the door, your name sounds markedly different. You don’t mention it, don’t draw attention to it, but you do enjoy the unfiltered, raw quality of his voice from then on.

The noises he makes when you touch him are always better than you remember. Their tone and cadence mark a gradual progression from high strung and uneasy to mellow and sedate as the tension coiled in his muscles dissipates under your hands. The harsh exhales devolve into low groans, quiet grunts. Sounds of pleasure waited too long to be had, of physical release so desperately needed. Every once in a while, when you work out a particularly stubborn knot, he murmurs a hushed, rumbling oh, fuck.

Once, when you earn a delicious moan paired with a strained, needy fuck, just like that, he bites off the last word so harshly that you know it was involuntary.

It turns you on more than the touch of any client ever has.

Even with the blindfold, you can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. Its weight is familiar from the start, when you meet him at the entrance to the baths, the echoing stone entry hall with its gilded fixtures and branches of guttering candles. A balled fist rested on the counter, he nods at you in all his armored glory, a cordial gesture that seems to gain gravity and intimacy each time he offers it. The black visor follows your walk down the long hallway to your rooms, dips to your hips when he thinks you’re not looking. Heavy, substantial. Pressure that could be measured, harsh enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

It stays on you until you shut the door between you, leaving you in the antechamber to tie on your blindfold and him in the main room to undress.

When you knock and enter, you can still track his gaze despite the layers of black silk—the feeling of it like a searing brand. Settled on your face when you smile up at him. Dragged over the curves of your breasts when you shamelessly tip forward to trail fingers through the water and they just barely begin to spill over the low cut of your dress. Trained on the movement of your tongue when you part your lips and lick a slow, gratuitous line over the bottom one. Riveted to the dark space between your legs when you spread your knees unnecessarily wide and the fabric of your thin, short dress rides up your thighs.

You tell yourself not to hope for more.

Then one day he shows up, and you can tell something is off. His usual steady, controlled energy has been replaced with a pent-up buzz. He’s worked up. You can hear it in his clipped words, feel it in the extra touches. The hand on your lower back guides you to the pool almost hurriedly.

His shoulders are even tighter than usual when you get your hands on them, his back a series of stony knots. He groans when you work at the tension in his neck, your thumbs digging into the tautness at the base of his skull. And when you offer yourself this time, feeling optimistic that you’ll get your most reluctant no yet, a strong hand guides you slowly and wordlessly down the smooth stone steps to join him in the water.

Reflexively, you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind you before the hem can catch in the water. You lose his touch in the process, but a path of goosebumps down your body echoes the course of his gaze as it pulls along your curves. You can feel his attention, his captivation at your nakedness in the fervent tension that snaps taut between you.

His invitation is so unexpected, though, that once you’re standing in the hot, waist-deep water, you’re stunned motionless. Disoriented. You don’t know where he is for a moment; you feel his hot gaze everywhere, all at once. You never actually thought you’d get this far with him, and now it feels daunting—the darkness of blindfold, the ever-changing line of his limits and preferences. You feel untethered.

Until the water shifts and he touches you.

“Beautiful,” he says, damp fingers following the curve of your cheek so lightly you can only just feel them.

You take his hand in both of yours and kiss his palm, soft lips brushing over rough skin. He catches you under your chin, and one fingertip traces your lips, his other hand settling on your waist, flexing.

You don’t want to push him too fast, and you also want to take full advantage of this opportunity while you finally have it.

You part your lips, and his fingers still.

You let your tongue peek out to circle the pad of one finger, inviting. To your delight, he responds by carefully pushing two fingers into your mouth. When you close your lips around them and suck, he lets out a broken, pained sound, pressing down on your tongue lightly before he eases them back out and drags a wet line down your chin to settle his hand around your throat.

You smile up at him, unseeing, as you trail fingers down his chest, the soft give of his stomach, dipping below the water as you reach the ridge of his hipbone. Moving slowly, always slowly, so he can stop you if he wants to.

Sure enough, his hand finds yours, trapping it against his skin. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to," you interrupt. "I want to touch you.”

It’s an understatement. There isn’t enough time to share all the myriad ways you’ve fantasized about touching him.

“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you walk in here in your armor,” you say, letting your voice pitch low. “What you’d feel like under all that metal.”

His hand disappears, and yours slips further down the v of his hips to wrap around the base of his cock. Hard, thick, big like you knew it would be.

“I think about it every time I work my way down your chest. How easy it would be to slip my hands lower...to see if you enjoy having my hands on your body as much as I do.”

He breathes out slowly, but his whole body is rigid as you drag your other hand over his shoulder, down his chest, a granite statue under your touch even as you start to work him over in long, luxurious strokes.

“I’ve been dying to know, Mando.”

His cock twitches in your hand, his skin hot and slick as it pulls over his hard length. He isn’t relaxing into your touch like he usually does, and this white-knuckled, shallow-breath, penitent version of pleasure is not at all what you’d intended for him, what he deserves.

You tip your face up toward his. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

A rough exhalation. Noncommittal, a little wry.

You step closer, gingerly moving into his space. He lets you. The water shifts around you as you move into him, close enough that your breasts brush his warm body and you can place a soft kiss on his chest. His ribs expand in a rapid, deep inhale, a rough hitching breath, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck.

You press him backward with a palm to his sternum, and he resists reflexively, his feet planted firmly. A man not so easily moved. Who is used to doing the telling, not being told.

“Sit for me?”

He relents with a hum, going pliant for you as you back him up to sit on the submerged marble bench. He helps you climb up, strong hands guiding your movements, settling you onto your knees in a straddle over his lap.

You dip your head to find the crook of his neck and lavish open-mouthed kisses on his throat, below his ear, automatically respecting the limits of where his helmet would be, as you move your hand between your bodies. You’ve never touched above his neck and won’t change that now, even though you’re dying to trace the contours of his face, to fit your lips to his.

Perched over him, you can feel his body gradually relax under your attention, his posture softening, his breath dropping into a more natural cadence. His hands find your hips, your thighs, slide back to grip your ass, as you begin to increase the pace of your stroke.

“Have you, Mando? Have you thought about this?”

You feel him nod once against the side of your head. Jerky, frantic.

“Good,” you purr into his skin, letting your teeth drag over his collarbone.

He groans, his hips lifting off the bench to push himself into your grip harder. The heat that always simmers in your core when you’re around him grows and spreads. It’s overwhelming—so much of his bare skin on your bare skin, after so long with so little. Almost feverish as you move together in the hot water.

Your hand pauses mid-stroke; his hands tighten in protest, sliding you a tiny bit closer on his tense thighs. “Do you think about me?”

His ragged breathing stalls. He nods again. “All the time.”

You hum, pleased, and resume the tight pull of your fist. Your own arousal is approaching a blistering point, so hot and bright, and he’s barely touching you—one hand on your ass, the other dragged up your body to palm your breast, his strong thighs pressed to the inside of yours. He rolls your nipple between two fingers, and you gasp.

“Feel so good,” he rasps, the heavy weight of his hands reverent as they catalog the slopes and rises of your body. “Just like I imagined.”

You can’t help but think about how easily you could sit on his cock right now. All it would take is a slight shift and tilt of your hips and you could catch the blunt head at your entrance. He’d stretch you so deliciously—that girth and length—but your wetness would let you work yourself down onto his lap until he was filling you completely. You’d fuck an orgasm out of him, riding him until he found his release in the tight clutch of your body, milking his cock until he shuddered from the oversensitivity.

One day. Maybe.

He’s close—you can tell by the strain in his voice, by his ragged breath, by the way his hands tighten on your ass. By the way he wraps one large hand around yours on his cock, tightening your grip.

“Just like that.”

You’d give anything to see his face when you feel the urgent flex of his hips as he fucks into your joined hands, the jerk and shudder of his large frame as it curves over you, his forehead dropping to rest heavily on your shoulder as he moans brokenly through the pleasure. It’s the most intimate part of all of this—so human, so trusting. So tempting to reach up and touch his face, to put detail to what you’ve imagined so many times.

You regret that your hand is submerged in water, that you can’t feel his hot release slide over the dips and swells of your knuckles. That you won't be able to lick it off your fingers—to taste it, for your own pleasure and for his. To listen to the sounds he’d make as he watched you eat his come.

Instead, when it’s over, when he’s finished, the weight of his forehead lifts from your shoulder and his touch abandons your body. You resist the urge to search it out, to ask for it back.

You imagine how he looks unwound underneath you, his head tipped back against the edge of the pool, muscles slack. His body finally truly relaxed.

Your part is done.

He’s never spent this long here, and you imagine he’s hyperaware of that. Always on a timeline. Some small part of you thought maybe—hoped—this time would be different, that maybe he’d linger, that maybe he’d want to touch you. You slide backward off his lap to take your leave reluctantly, but when you reach blindly for the edge of the pool, there’s the sound of quick movement through the water and he closes a hand around your wrist.

Relief courses through your veins.

He doesn’t say anything, just guides you. You can’t tell what his aim is until he arranges your body over his just so—just the way he wants you. He has you straddle his lap backwards this time, your back flush to his chest, your knees opened wide by the spread of his legs between yours.

You think about what he does for work, the command and skill it requires. Those capable hands and sure grip have wrestled so many bounties into submission—into handcuffs, into rope bindings, into his carbonite chamber—and here they are exerting their power and ability for the sake of your pleasure. Blunt instrument, suddenly fine.

His breath is hot by your ear, his heavy hand settling meaningfully on your inner thigh. “Can I—?”

“Yes. Fuck, please—”

You guide his hand between your legs, desperate, and his mouth finds the back of your neck. His mouth. Stubble scrapes across your skin, soft lips molding to the contour of your shoulder. The heat that’s been building in your body, that started as a low smolder in your core, has been growing to a rolling boil the whole time you were touching him. And his mouth on your body? Like striking a match to gasoline.

The reality of the situation, the surprise of this touch, ratchets your arousal to a precipitous height. It’s the sheer brazenness of it—the unflinching way he’s taking such a huge step. In the name of your pleasure, of his desire to taste you.

The offering of such intimacy, a secret shared.

A warm tongue blazes a lazy trail from the notch of your vertebra to your nape as two fingers slip into the slit of your sex, beginning a slow massage of your clit. Your mind goes blank.

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he makes you come, how little time it takes with his hand between your legs and his lips on your skin. He fucks you with two thick fingers, another swirling over your clit, and you wonder vaguely how he knows how to curl the two inside you just right against your g-spot.

You reach behind you to grip the back of his neck as you arch, your hips circling. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and you go molten at the thought that he’s watching himself finger-fuck you to climax.

“Are you going to—?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good.”

It's said through clenched teeth, a gritted jaw. He’s deriving so much pleasure from your pleasure, it's dizzying.

Teeth close over your shoulder and he bites down as you begin shudder and shake, as you clench and spasm around the thrust of his fingers—as you listen to his voice break on a groan as he feels it and draws it out—until the pleasure wanes and you melt back against him, boneless and sated, his strong body an anchor underneath you in the water.

You pant together, your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, and all you can think about is how fucking close his lips are to yours. You could turn your face and kiss his jaw. He could angle your head and push his tongue into your mouth so easily. You’re so pliant; you want it so badly.

You consider asking. And then you consider the fact that he’s likely thinking about the same thing—your closeness is palpable, the tension a live, shivering thing—and he isn’t doing anything about it. He isn’t fitting a hand to your cheek to maneuver you just so.

You won’t ask for something he isn’t ready to offer.

When he finally does let you go, this visit that was so different from the others ends the same. He guides you back to the exit and hands you the robe that hangs by the door. As he helps you shoulder it on, he murmurs a sincere thank you, accompanied by a rumble of your name.

There’s one notable difference: as you're walking through the doorway, he catches your hand and squeezes it fleetingly before letting it drop.

The door shuts behind you with a click.

As always, a stack of credits far too high will be left in the room for you, and just like every other time, you’ll wait impatiently for his return.

#din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin x f!reader #mando x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #mando x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader

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atyourmerci · 2 months

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✩Your Galaxy✩

✩ ✩

Abby Anderson / Mandolorian AU

Summary: Abby as a Mandolorian. No specific relationship to reader yet (will obv get into if this turns into a fic).

Warnings: smut, MDNI, some fluff holy fuck Madda wrote fluff?? Fingering, cunnilingus, switch!abby, switch!reader, cannon typical violence, no y/n, only description of reader is having hair, making up shit about space and Star Wars uni that I don’t know!!!it’s fine!!!

A/N: hey babies, so I’ve been sittingggg on this idea for a sec and idk if it will gel with you guys so pls lmk if this would be something you’re interested in. I guess this is a blurb?? If you wanna see it turn into a fic pls let me know:))

✩ ✩

Mando!abby who takes off her gloves so she can feel how wet you really are, even when you promise her.

Mando!abby who let’s you trace your fingers along her face in the darkness of the night so you can imagine what she truly looks like. The first time you weren’t expecting her vulnerability, she had just fucked you senseless as you laid there heaving when she pulled your shaky fingertips to her defined face, allowing you to let them roam freely.

Mando!abby who took her helmet off for the first time when you were laid inbetween her thighs, lapping at her swollen clit. She wanted you to hear her pathetic whimpers that no one else had. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly when you heard the rustling of the helmet come off, but she trusted you… “k- keep going baby I- jus’ wanna watch you”

Mando!abby who couldn’t help but to admit her real name with you as she had you bent over her bed, helmet off heavy breathed over the shell of your ear, driving her soaked fingers into your needy cunt. “F-fuck Mando…” you pathetically breathe out, muffled by the thin white fabric of her bed. “Abby,” Mando remarked flatly. It took you aback at the unrecognizable name, your body froze as your mind raced, did she call you the wr- “call me abby,” she corrects herself. A guttural breath you didn’t notice you were holding escapes your lips. Abby…Abby. A delicate name for the otherwise ruthless murderer. The name swirled aimlessly in your mind over and over again…abby.

Mando!abby who’s secret you knew. She was able to go unrecognized as a woman in her field, tweaking her modulator so her voice came out husky, her build making her larger and more threatening than any other mandolorian you had seen before. She didn’t want them to treat her differently, think less of her ability. You accidentally stumbled upon her well held secret when she came back to the ship with a gash across her abdomen. She tried hiding it from you, but it came up so close on her chest you unknowingly forced it out of her. You froze at the sight of her black bra peeking under her tunic, cheeks flushed. “Don’t say a fucking word,” she bit under her breath. You internally pulled yourself together with your new found information on the mysterious killer, wild eyed averting your gaze back to her cover eyes, eyes that you’ll never see. “Okay.” You said with an attempt at confidence. An attempt at reassurance. She had no reason to trust your word, but she did.

Mando!abby who insists on showering your body even if the lights are on. A stupid fucking ship. If the shower was running the lights had to be on. This was an automatic off zone for you when things started with you and abby. Not only could you see her face, but her entire body would be revealed to you in the intimate space of the well-lit shower. Her body that you had only seen bits and pieces of in desperate, heavy breathed moments, but never her face. But when you had returned from a rather brutal hunt, blood caked in your hair, she insisted to clean you off. “B-but abby-“ before you can protest she began removing your blood soaked clothing out of your sight behind you, “just close your eyes, I’ll stand behind you. I’m not leaving you by yourself for another moment,” the tang of her sweet voice fluttered your ears, unmarked by the hardness of the modulated voice of her visor.

Taglist: @wishbones999 @bookpagecandlescent @littlegingerperson5 @lookforthelight1 @fict1onallyobsessed

#abby anderson #the last of us #abby anderson smut #abby x reader #abby the last of us #abby tlou #the mandolarian #mando fanfiction #mando smut #abby anderson tlou2 #sub abby #abby angst

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mod-a-day · 1 year

Audio

Fabrice Gillet (Arpegiator) "level a miracle" Atari Karts (1995) Miracle Designs

#music #tracked music #module music #ProTracker #MOD #Fabrice Gillet #Arpegiator #level a #miracle #Miracle Man #Atari Karts #1995 #Miracle Designs #video game music

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mtg-cards-hourly · 2 years

Photo

Fabrication Module

Inspiration leads to design.

Artist: Aaron Miller TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

#mtg #magic the gathering #tcg #$0.10 #aaron miller #fabrication module #kaladesh #artifact

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murdrdocs · 6 months

Text

INTERVIEW 010

with. rafe cameron and jj maybank

includes. ghostface!rafe and jj, DUBCON, fem!reader, knife play, breaking and entering, unprotected p n v sex, mean!rafe and jj (obvi), reader isn't aware of their identities

→ kinktober masterlist

The knife that reflects the low light, pointed directly at you, should cause alarm. It should at least be the cause of the spike in your heart rate, instead of the two masked men who wield it. It should make your mouth dry, instead of increasing saliva production.

You should be worried about your current position. About your current predicament.

Kneeled on the carpeted floor of your childhood home, hands politely, and voluntarily, placed in your lap, your entire body lax and complacent even with two imposing figures looming over you, masked and dressed in all black combat gear.

They stare at you, silent, calculating, eyes invisible beneath the ghost face and the black cloth that covers the oblong eye slits. The last time they spoke to you, – the first barking a hard command of “get on your knees” and the second cooing a condescending praise of “that’s it” when you did as told – you heard their voices through a modulator, designed to disguise possibly the most telling aspect of them.

The distortion of it shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did. But nothing about this situation should have been as arousing as it is.

Two masked men, completely unidentifiable, breaking into your home and holding a knife pointed at you with intent to use, shouldn’t be attractive. But between your legs is soaked, gray panties housing a dark gray patch right in the center of them.

You didn’t have the thought to slip a pair of pants on after your shower earlier, leaving you in a tiny tee and your underwear, no bra to cover your hardening nipples from the perpetrators that stand before you.

They notice it, you can tell they do, it’s impossible not to notice. Yet they don’t say anything.

Instead, the one on the left, the taller of the two, leans down and raises a gloved hand. You flinch, but there’s no reason to, his hand raising to your chest instead of your face. His thumb and pointer finger single themselves out, closing around your pert nipple. He squeezes, as if he’s testing you, and you hiss. When his thumb grazes over the area instead of pinching it, you don’t know if it’s a gift, if you’d passed his test or not.

You’re still unaware of your status when the other circles behind you, hand coming to your front view to cup your chin. You watch the glove come into view, eyes instead going up when he pushes your head back, making it so you look straight at him. The blank stare of the mask menacing, yet you’re not afraid.

Instead, you shuffle on your knees, rubbing your thighs together in a pathetic attempt to receive some sort of friction. It doesn’t work, but you succeed in getting their attention, two pairs of snickers sounding from either side of you.

“Give her what she wants,” the one behind you suggests to the other, the words lacking the harshness that an order should. Instead, it’s a simple suggestion, one you hope the other decides to take.

When he does, getting what you want has never felt so good.

Not even the pain in your knees could dull this feeling, skin scraping along the rough texture of the overpriced rug your parents love so much as you attempt to hold yourself up. One of your hands digs into the black fabric of the denim jeans that one of your assailants wears, the other pressed flat into the harsh fabric beneath you.

Your hand placements does nothing to steady you, though, not when the masked figure behind you is fucking you like this. Raw, something that only concerned you for an astonishingly brief second before you let your thoughts go in favor of reveling in the pleasure. Pleasure which multiplied once the figure in front of you had his cock down your throat.

The living room is a mixture of sounds; the deep groans from the one behind you mixed with his insistent praises that degrade you all at the same time, the almost-whimpers from the one in front of you as he holds a hand at the back of your neck to force you to take more and more, and your pathetic garbling as you don’t bother attempting to muffle your own sounds while you take it all in.

You’ve never been more full, nor have you ever been more fucking aroused. You can hear your own arousal over your slurping, pornographic squelches of bare skin abusing your gummy walls. You can feel it dripping around you, the skin of your inner thighs wet and warm.

In a risky move, you shakily raise one of your hands to bring it between your legs, running your fingers over your clit with a touch that has your eyes rolling back.

“Look at her. She’s really getting off to this, huh?” The voice behind you is distant as you start to rub a little faster, tight circles clearly intended to get yourself off.

“Gonna make yourself cum, sweetheart? Hm? Getting off to two men breaking into your apartment and having their way with you.” He’s mean with it, and you’re sure the words are spoken to put you down, maybe fill you with shame and make you falter a bit.

Instead, they do the opposite, sending you over the edge in an orgasm that has your legs shaking, body practically collapsing to the floor.

They follow you to the ground, because although you may be done, it doesn’t mean they are.

#🕸️ 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐑 #rafetobr!#jjtobr!#rafesworld!#jjsworld!#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron smut #dark!rafe cameron #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank smut #dark!jj maybank

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gatorbites-imagines · 6 months

Text

Kinktober day 16

Jason Todd + leather or Latex

I had like, no ideas what to do with this prompt ngl, so I just kinda went with whatever came to me when writing.

Crime lord Red Hood has always had a special place in my heart

Kinktober 2023 masterlist.

Working for The Red Hood wasn’t too bad, especially compared to the other rogues you’d had to work for in the past. With Hood you didn’t have to fear suddenly being shot because Two-face suddenly felt like it, or being eaten by whatever plants Ivy had conjured up, or answering whatever riddles the Riddler came up with that day.

Best part was probably the uniform though. All rogues put their people in specific clothes. For the joker it was clown masks and all that junk, Riddler wanted you in stuff with question mark print, penguin wanted you well dressed in suit and tie, the list went on. For Hood just wearing red seemed to be enough. Most seemed to just resort to wearing a red hoodie under their jacket, and that was enough.

Interestingly enough, working for Hood also came with some benefits, like being allowed to keep stuff from different conflicts as long as it didn’t cause issues for Hood. That was where you found your first leather, some rich guy from Metropolis tried to set up in Gotham and was quickly dealt with. If Gotham hated anyone more than each other, it was outsiders trying to barge in and make a name for themselves.

The guy had been wearing a sturdy but not too flashy leather jacket, so after checking the pockets and for bullet holes and seeing it in one piece, you tucked it over your arm and brought it home. You had to cut the tags out and changed the inner fabric to something cheaper, and most importantly, into something red, but the quality was no lie.

You realized you might have had a thing for Leather one night when you had needed to go out for some small run for Hood, and you’d been too tired and lazy to put on a shirt. You ended up going out in a pair of low waisted denim pants, some well worn boots, and your jacket. No one batted an eye, at all, seeing a shirtless guy was far from the weirdest shit in Gotham, but the feel of leather on your skin seemed to have lit something inside you.

After that you might have subconsciously started looking for the stuff whenever you went on raids or into fights for Hood and his territory. Who cared if you stole some hotshot from star cities leather west and hat, or that guy from Texas whose black leather boots you stole right off his feet. You didn’t touch the pants though, even though you really really wanted too, you just didn’t trust them not to be contaminated by all kinds of junk.

You honestly thought you hid it pretty well, your draw to leather that is. Everyone had their thing, and you always wearing your jacket and boots was just something you did. If you went home to get dressed all the way down to just your jacket and boots though to jerk off was another thing entirely.

But it seemed your draw to the last targets pants hadn’t gone fully unnoticed by your boss. Imagine your surprise when he shoved a package into your arms one night and told you to only check it when you got home, the modulator of his helmet making him seem way more serious than he probably was.

You wouldn’t say you were outright friends with Hood, no one could really be friends with their boss in the criminal world, but you cracked jokes with the guy and even got him to laugh on the regular. You patched him up when he needed it, and he dragged you to Leslie’s clinic when you got knocked around a bit too hard, which happened more than you liked to admit.

When you got home you had almost assumed that the package would hold weapons or maybe even drugs, even though Hood didn’t personally deal the stuff. But instead, you found what you immediately noticed was leather, a card placed on top of the neatly folded leather. The letter was in Hoods writing, and you felt your face heat up a tad at the words on the page.

“Next time just let me buy it for you instead of stealing it off bodies” it said, and when you unfolded the leather, you felt your insides flutter. It was pants, they seemed even better quality than the ones you had been eying the night before. But it wasn’t just pants, there was a newer jacket, it was brown and heavy and was very well worn, and when you held it out in front of you, you could see it was one of Hoods own jackets.

You could feel blood running downwards, leaving you fumbling with your clothes as you got undressed, feeling almost desperate to pull the pants up your legs and hips. They were tight, but not too tight, and there was no question about the quality. Your original jacket fell to the ground with a heavy thud, your fingers quickly grabbing the heavy well-loved leather of the brown jacket and pulling it on, a shaky breath leaving you as the smell that was so clearly Hood filled your senses.

It smelled like leather, gun oil, the cigarettes he smoked when he was annoyed or on edge, and something undeniably Hood, and it had you tenting your new pants. Or tenting as well as one could in leather, which meant it was more a visible bulge running down the inside of your thigh. It had felt so good on your skin that you had found yourself grinding against your hand on your couch like some inexperienced fool. Your back had arched off the couch as you stained the inside of your pants, the leather growing slick against you as you groaned.

It was only later when cleaning the leather that you noticed the writing in the waistband, near the back so it would sit near the bottom of your spine. “Red Hood” it said, like some kind of statement of ownership, and you had shivered and exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over your face to dispel the thoughts it awoke in your body.

Next time you saw Hood you had worn the pants, but the jacket was left at home. The worn jacket didn’t go well with the newer shinier leather of the pants, so it was your normal jacket and boots, which had some of your friends joke a bit about you being some kind of leather daddy because of your interest in the stuff. You had let the jokes run off your back, joking along every now and then.

You hadn’t even noticed Hood being there until he had appeared behind you, his gloved hand grabbing your ass and giving it a squeeze. Youd almost snapped around and decked him, assuming it was someone else, that was until you heard his modulated voice. “You’re wearing my gift. You like it?” he purred obviously enough that you could hear it even through the voice changer.

You could feel your skin growing clammy as you gave a small nod, not even daring to look at hood as he pressed his crotch against your back, his erection obvious even through all your shared layers. “Good, you look so hot in it” he rumbled, giving your thighs an extra squeeze before he stepped back and wandered off, leaving you unsteady on your feet as you tried to force the obvious hard shape in your pants away, for once cursing how tight they were.

It continued on this way for a while, Hood leaving you presents, and you would wear them around his headquarters. It was never expensive or high quality enough for anyone to target you, but Hood seemed to enjoy it very much. It felt almost like having a sugar daddy or some kind, but he had never demanded much sugar, only grabbing your ass at times, or rubbing his hands up and down your torso that time you’d worn a leather shirt under your jacket.

He was a tease, and you could hear the shit eating grin through his helmet as you ground against his thick thigh one day. You felt so wound up from his lingering touches that you had found yourself in his office one day, or what you guys called his office anyways. Maybe you wanted a fight of some kind, you weren’t sure, but one thing led to another, and you pinned up against the wall, his thigh between your own.

And now you were grinding against his thigh like some kind of pervert, your fingers digging into the worn leather of his jacket as you gasped into his shoulder. You didn’t even notice as he pulled off his gloves or spat on his fingers, it was only when one of his hands was shoved down the back of your leather pants and between your cheeks that you realised. A groan left you as he rubbed the pad of his finger against your pucker, his voice cocky as he asked if this was what you wanted.

You tried to glare at him, but it only seemed to fuel him more as Hood pushed his finger inside, letting you adjust before he started moving to the best of his ability, your tight pants not leaving much room to move his wrist. The stimulation was driving you crazy, the tight leather of your pants doing nothing to lessen the experience as you ground forwards into his thigh, before you pushed back onto his hand.

Running your hands down his torso and up his shirt, you could keep the moan from leaving you as you felt something too smooth and slick to be leather. It was Latex, he was wearing a latex shirt under everything else, maybe it was even a full body thing as it continued as you thumbed at the waistband of his pants.

Your exploring just seemed to fuel him more as Hood added not just a second but a third finger at the same time, letting you just barely adjust to the stretch before he started moving his hand once more, causing you to grind harder against his thigh.

It was impossible to fight back the orgasm that rocked through you, thoroughly slicking up the crotch area of your leather pants as there was no fabric to soak it up, letting it splatter against your thighs and lower body. You could feel yourself twitch a bit as Hood removed his fingers, instead grabbing onto your hips and lifting you up, making your legs wrap around his waist.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to ask what he was up too as he walked backwards, plopping down on his chair with you in his lap, sighing softly as he started rubbing his hands up your torso, flicking your chest through the leather shirt you had chosen to wear. “You alright baby?” he asked, voice warm and caring, leaving you feeling all types of mushy.

You just scoffed and leaned forwards, resting against his broad shoulders and coiling your arms around him. Hood rubbed your back for a while before rolling his chair close to his desk, the taping of keys letting you know he was working on one thing or the other. In the end you found yourself with both your hands up his shirt, rubbing at his latex covered torso as you rocked lazily against his thigh, no hurry in your movements as you knew you had all night, and it would happen soon if the twitching bulge between Hoods thighs meant anything.

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chaoticace2005 · 30 days

Text

Spiders, their senses, and Angel Dust implications

I already screamed to @xxqueenofdragonsxx about this but figured I’d put it out there because I was doing research and I can’t stop thinking about it.

While we don’t know how canon it is to the show, this does have some implications for fanfics and is fun to consider.

Spiders don’t have ears. Or noses. Or tongues.

People have already made jokes about Angel’s lack of a nose, but it tracks with that fact. We also don’t see his ears, although we have seen his tongue (which, given he isn’t an actual spider there can be some allowances made.) Yes, he doesn’t have pedipalps to act as a substitution for his nose/tongue, but that isn’t the only place they can smell/taste things.

It’s their legs/feet(?). Their legs and bodies have sensory hair cells that allows them to detect vibrations in the air, as well as changes in electrical fields (which… Vox and Alastor implications? Can Angel sense them.) Humans hear via sensory hair cells too, but those are concentrated in the cochlea of the inner ear and surrounded by the outer/middle ear system (eardrum, etc.) Spiders don’t have that. They also have chemoreceptors that can smell and taste things.

Now, as someone who didn’t know much about spiders it’s cool to think about in terms of a character with some spider-like characteristics. But then I thought about this other aspect of Angel

His clothing

More specifically his constant usage of gloves/long sleeves/boots. We know he hates his spider feet, and yeah, the usage of gloves and his blazer can be to fit his style, but it’s also fun to think that maybe him wearing them is an active attempt to reduce sensory input? He’d still get some vibration input because the fabric won’t block everything, but it won’t be as direct. But since spider sensory organs aren’t localized like humans are, this could essentially be the equivalent of wearing a headphones. (Also do you really want to taste every single thing you touch?)

Which brings me to the second order of business: when he DOESNT wear his gloves. We do see him have to be bare for the camera, and if you consider him wearing clothes as a way of sensory modulation, he could essentially be forced to get all that input. Sensory overload would already be so ways in a place with so many sounds, lights, smells, etc. but imagine if you also have to do that when not used to such a level of exposure?

In humans there’s a condition called hyperacusis, which is basically a reduced pain and discomfort threshold to sounds. Some everyday ones can cause pain. Some neurodivergent people also have sensory sensitivities like that, in both cases sometimes headphones can help to reduce input.

The thing is though, if you constantly wear them you’re reducing your own threshold. It’s not recommended for people with hyperacusis to wear earplugs all the time because it makes them even more sensitive when not wearing them.

So, if you apply the same principle here, there is even more reason to consider the idea Angel would have some level of overstimulation just from not having his clothes on, combine that with the work environment, what he has to do, and the emotional turmoil of it all and that just makes it worse.

Which… with me anyways I’ve found when I’m too overloaded my brain tends to nope out and dissociate. So that could be what happens to Angel as well.

Then, there is one time outside of the studio we see him with uncovered arms and that’s the battle at the hotel.

Here, he’s wearing gloves but his arms are exposed. So it could be said that he’s allowing himself access to more input while also not overwhelming himself. He still has a buffer with the gloves on, but he also has heightened awareness for things around him.

Again, the amount of this actually being applicable in canon is hard to say. Sense we don’t know how spidery Angel really is (since again, he does have a tongue) and what level of research went into that aspect of their character designs. But I think it’s a fun thing to consider.

So uhhh… yeah. Totally normal about this all as someone who totally isn’t interested in audiology, hyperfixating on hazbin hotel, and neurodivergent myself.

(Update: there is now a fic)

#I would like to state that this post is based on 2 am research of jumping spiders and spiders as a wholes sensory perception #so if there is any wrong information feel free to correct me #excuse me while I combine my special interests in a post #hazbin hotel #angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel analysis #hazbin hotel meta

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beskarandblasters · 8 months

Text

Breaking in the New House

Husband!Din Djarin x Wife!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Summary: After marrying Din on Mandalore you move into a new house on Nevarro. Din gives Grogu to Greef Karga overnight to christen the new house in the best way possible; by fucking in every single room.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent, established relationship, took some liberties as to what I think the layout of the house is like, helmet is on and off for sex, oral sex (M and F receiving), Din Djarin is an uncut man and I stand by that, he also has stamina and can pick reader up, cum eating, nipple play, vaginal sex, semi public sex?? (idk they do it against a window 💀), multiple rounds, multiple positions, creampie, squirting, cockwarming, praising, aftercare, use of Mando'a words (cyar'ika = sweetheart, mesh'la = beautiful, riduur = spouse), no use of y/n

“Thanks for taking him for us!” you say, passing Grogu off to Greef Karga.

“Of course. I love this little critter. Is it date night tonight?” he says, taking him in his arms.

“You could say that,” Din says, placing a hand on the small of your back.

You recently moved into a new house on Nevarro following the Mandalorians retaking Mandalore and a spontaneous marriage ceremony for you and Din. And now that you have a stable place to live and don’t have to figure out creative ways to have sex without the Razor Crest, Din wants to fuck you in the new house; every room in the new house. But Karga doesn’t need to know about your plan.

“Stop!” you scold him, turning around and lightly slapping his bicep.

“Right… Well have fun you two!”

You wave goodbye to Grogu and turn to walk home. Din’s hand on the small of your back travels down to your ass, giving it a squeeze.

“Din! We’re still in public!”

“You know I don’t care.”

You sigh in response. “You ready, cyar’ika? I meant it when I said every room.”

“Minus Grogu’s room, of course.”

“We can just do it in the backyard to make up for that.”

“Don’t push your luck,” you laugh.

You walk up the path to your front door and step inside. Din wastes no time taking off his helmet because you can hear the hiss of the modulator behind you. That’s something you’re still getting used to; seeing his face regularly now that you’re married. Not that you’re complaining. You hear him set the helmet down on a shelf behind you and his hands grab your waist, spinning you around to face him. His eyes are filled with pure lust, pupils blown out so wide leaving only a small ring of brown.

“What order should we do this, cyar’ika?”

“Bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom? Maybe in the refresher at the end so we can wash up after?”

“Oh yeah you know we’re going to be filthy by the time we’re done,” he says, going in for a kiss.

His lips collide with yours and in an instant the kiss turns passionate. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging on it lightly and letting out a small groan. He needs to be inside you now.

Your bodies move back and forth in sync, inching your way to the bedroom with you shedding layers of clothing and being careful to not break the kiss. You arrive by the edge of the bed and you’re completely undressed by now but Din is not. He wants you to remove his armor and weapons for him; something he can’t get enough of every time you have sex. The way you respect his creed and treat his armor so gently does something for him. You start with the armor on his thighs, removing each piece and setting them down lightly on the nightstand and working your way up. You take off everything from his breastplate, shoulder pauldrons, belt, vibrances, holster, everything until he’s just in his flight suit. You notice the large bulge already forming against the fabric. He takes off his gloves, boots and flight suit, leaving them in a small pile on the floor. And there he stands in front of you, completely bare. Your riduur being naked in front of you shouldn’t be such a surprise but up until now, sex was always something spontaneous; wherever you could fit it in, leaving no time for him to remove everything and be completely vulnerable with you. But here with you in this house he feels safe. Your eyes trail up and down his form, taking in every detail from his scars, body hair, and tummy. And also his hard cock; roughly eight inches long, uncut with a patch of pubic hair he keeps neat. And it’s all for you.

“You like what you see, cyar’ika?”

“Always,” you smile, meeting his gaze.

You sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to take the lead. He falls to his knees in front of your legs and spreads them apart. He brings his hand to your belly and pushes lightly, prompting you to lay down. You oblige and rest your back on the bed, shivering in anticipation of his touch. His hand starts at your inner ankle, slowly moving upwards to your thigh. He pauses and stares at your cunt, already glistening for him and only him. He rests the side of his face on your inner thigh and asks, “Ready, riduur?”

“Please, Din,” you beg, aching for his touch already.

“So needy,” he chuckles, his warm breath tickling you.

He brings his tongue to your cunt, licking slowly up and down your sex. Your breath shudders every time he draws closer to your clit. With one last slow lick up your cunt he moves to your clit, sucking with determination to get you to cum. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging on it every time he adds more pressure. You arch your back in pleasure, writing against him as he keeps sucking on your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Having him eat you out was rare for you, only taking off his helmet under the cover of darkness. And to be here married to him, helmet off with the lights on as he eats you out while you lay on a real bed is something you only thought possible in your dreams. You grind yourself against his face, aching for more contact, basically fucking yourself against his face at this point. With one last swirl of his tongue around your clit you’re coming, costing the lower half of his face with your release. It’s a big orgasm, making all of your limbs feel tingly with pleasure and you’re far from done with orgasms for the night.

He pulls away once the movement of your hips slows down and sits beside you on the bed, watching your chest rise and fall as you catch your breath.

“That was amazing, Din,” you breathe out, still a little shaky.

“There’s more where that came from, cyar’ika.”

You giggle and say, “Oh yeah? But now it’s your turn,” moving down to where he was on the floor.

You kneel beside the bed, taking his hard length in your hand and giving it a few strokes. You press kisses all over his thighs and groin, everywhere but his cock, making him ache for it. You bring your lips to the head of his cock when you decide he’s had enough teasing, swirling your tongue around the head and under the foreskin before taking his length into your mouth, as much as you can fit. You hear him curse and pant above you, followed by a strained, “cyar’ika”.

Your other hand cups his balls lightly and that’s when you feel him go crazy, completely desperate for more. You bob your head up and down, keeping one hand at the base of his cock and the other holding his balls a little tighter. You switch back and forth between taking his shaft in your mouth and playing with his foreskin with your tongue. His balls tense up in your hand and you know he’s about to cum. You open your mouth and stick your tongue out, stroking his cock so the head rests against your flat tongue, getting ready to swallow his cum. With one last stroke of his shaft and squeeze in his he’s coming hard, letting out a jumbled string of groans, obscenities and your name. You swallow every last drop of his release before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and sitting on the bed beside him, watching him catch his breath this time.

He grabs your waist and lays down on the bed, pulling you against him. His cock still hard and upright but that was to be expected. He’s been dreaming of his moment ever since he decided to move here.

“You take care of me so well, riduur,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your lips.

“Of course,” you say, kissing him back before moving to straddle him. You sink down onto his cock slowly, both of you sighing at the familiar, warm feeling. His cock stretches your walls and brushes against your cervix; something you had to get used to at first, just the sheer size of him. But now it’s like you two were made for each other, like his cock is right where it belongs; buried inside your cunt.

You rock your hips back and forth and his hands grip the soft skin of your waist. Every moment you make buries his cock deeper inside you, your breasts bouncing perfectly for him. He removes one hand from your waist and brings it to the outline of one of your breasts, caressing it softly before moving to your nipple. He takes it between his fingertips and pinches it lightly, driving you insane and emitting a soft whine from you.

“Din, I’m gonna cum soon,” you whine as he moves from one breast to the other.

“Do it, cyar’ika. Soak my cock,” he says, desperate to feel your cunt squeeze his cock already.

With one last grind of your hips against him you’re coming hard, the head of his cock nestled against your cervix as you cum. Your cunt flutters and pulsates around him, gripping his cock in erratic patterns. The movement of your hips slows and comes to a stop as your high comes to an end. As for Din… he’s still completely hard.

“Alright next room, mesh’la,” he says, squeezing your ass.

You groan, not wanting him to leave your cunt just yet, but you know he’s gonna keep fucking you relentlessly. You hop off of him and stand, knees buckling underneath you already. He grabs your waist to keep you steady before leading you to the living room in front of the house. He grabs his helmet off the shelf and puts it back on, prompting you to ask, “What for?”

“Against the window, cyar’ika,” he says.

“Against the window?”

“Mhm. In case anyone needs to be reminded who you belong to.”

How can you say no to that?

You draw the curtains and look outside. The sun is starting to set. You situate yourself in front of the window and bend over, sticking your ass out for him and pressing your hands against the glass. He enters you slowly, letting out a modulated moan as he cock returns to where it belongs. Your breasts are flush against the window and your head is turned to the side as he thrusts in and out of you. You have a rush of adrenaline at the thought of anyone walking by and seeing you. The thought of someone seeing you take your riduur’s cock just adds to your arousal. It’s like he can sense what does to you, how wet that makes you.

“Dirty girl,” he says, “I bet you want someone to see us.”

You just moan in response because you know it’s true. He keeps his grip on your hips tight as he fucks you relentlessly, drawing back and slamming into you with force. Your legs are getting weaker underneath you and if you didn’t have the window to keep you upright you’d surely be collapsing right now. He reaches around you and brings a hand to your clit, rubbing small circles around it as he continues to plow you. And this is it, you’re gonna cum again for the third time tonight. Your third orgasm rips through you, even more intense than the previous ones. A warm tingling feeling originates at your core and spreads outwards, making your whole body feel euphoric. With one last slam of his hips into you he’s coming, too. He paints your insides with his cum, keeping you in place against the window before pulling out when he’s finished. You stand upright and lean back into him. He wraps his arms around you as you both catch your breath.

“Quick break?”

“Mhm. Quick,” you say.

He chuckles and lets go of you to shut the curtains and remove his helmet again. You sit down next to each other on the couch, both of you slick with sweat from the evening’s activities. He glances over at you, breathing deeply from being fucked hard and your nipples perked up, eyeing you up and down as you’re curled up next to him. His thighs are spread apart slightly and his cock is still hard in his lap, moving slightly as he breathes.

This is supposed to be your breather but… you can’t resist. You move into his lap and straddle him, sinking down on his cock again. You’re not really looking to fuck again. You just missed the feeling of him inside you. He doesn’t protest or say a word, understanding your actions completely. You lean forward and rest against his chest. He rubs your back and whispers words of praise in your ear.

“You’re doing so well, cyar’ika, taking my cock like this.”

You hum in response as you relax for a moment, reveling in the feeling of being full without any movement.

“Ready for the next room, mesh’la?” he asks, after you’ve both had a moment to rest.

“Mhm,” you sigh, reluctantly pulling yourself off him again.

You walk to the kitchen and decide where you want to do it. You could have him fuck over the sink but it’d be similar to the position you just did in the living room. You turn to the kitchen table and notice it’s the perfect height for you to splay out on top of it as he stands at the edge.

“Right here?” you ask, placing a hand on top of the table.

“Right where we eat, cyar’ika?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel then heat up. Maybe that wasn’t a good call. But instead he loves it, grabbing your waist and pulling you into him.

“Dirty girl you are,” he says, kissing you, “On the table for me.”

You nod and feel a little stupid for getting embarrassed but nevertheless you climb on top of the table, your cunt at the edge of the table and your legs hanging over.

He bends down and licks another stripe up your cunt, something you weren’t expecting and it sends a shiver up your spine.

“What? I have to eat it on the table, cyar’ika,” he chuckles before returning to lap your cunt.

You sigh as his tongue tracing around your cunt and back up to your clit, finishing by sucking on it to get you nice and ready for him again. He stands and aligns himself with your entrance, pushing into you once more. But this time he pushes down on your abdomen as he fucks you, right where his cock is buried deep inside you. It’s intense; a newfound sensation you’ve never had before.

“Stars, Din, that feels good,” you moan as your pleasure mounds.

“Mhm, I bet, cyar’ika.”

He adds a bit more pressure, not enough to hurt you or bother you but just enough to make you feel even better. His thumb returns to your clit again and you feel like the floodgates are about to burst. And they do. Before you know it you’re squirting all over the kitchen table; all over him. And it makes him feral. Yes, you’ve squirted for him before but he’s never been able to see it without the helmet in the way and he can’t get enough.

“Yes, just like that, cyar’ika. Cum all over my cock,” he says, fucking you harder as he grows more and more obsessed. Your soft moans and cries fill the kitchen as he fucks you through your orgasm. And somehow, it’s more intense than the previous ones. You don’t know how that’s even possible but leave it to Din to make you feel this good.

He buries his cock into you down to the hilt and spills his release into you with a groan. His eyes are closed as he rides out his immense pleasure. You can’t believe the stamina he’s had tonight but then again you can. Your riduur is completely feral for you and only you. Completely delirious on making you cum over and over again on his cock.

He pulls out and stares at the absolute mess you both made. Your cunt is soaked with your release and his, dripping from the table and onto the floor. You sit up so you can see it for yourself, marveling at the sheer amount of liquid you both produced. He grabs your chin and kisses you again, tugging at your bottom lip and growling against you, “Good girl”finishing with another kiss before pulling away.

He helps you off the table as your legs just keep getting shakier as the night progresses. It’s time for the final round; in the refresher in the bathroom. You follow him into the bathroom and he turns the water on, letting the small space feel with steam. You step inside and let the water run down your body, soothing the soreness you’ve built up tonight. He wraps your arms around you from behind and pulls you into his chest.

“You’re so tired, cyar’ika,” he muses.

“Mhm. But I’m not giving up, not now,” you sigh.

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss by your ear, “Turn around for me.”

You do as you're told and turn around for him, facing him and staring down at his still hard cock. He bends down and picks you up by hooking his arms around your thighs, pinning you against the refresher wall and bringing you down onto his cock. It always amazes you how strong your riduur is, how he can pick you up and fuck you so effortlessly. He plows into you against the wall and you think back to all the different places and positions you’ve been fucked in tonight. You’re truly spent but that doesn’t mean you’re tapping out now, not at the final round.

Your bodies are pressed up against each other, warm and wet from the shower. His biceps are peppered in droplets of water as he keeps his grip on you tight, fucking you in truly an animalistic way. His hair is getting wet from the water above and you take a mental picture of this sight; the first time having sex in the refresher with Din.

The sounds in the small bathroom are truly obscene, between your moans, his grunts and the sound of skin colliding with skin you’re grateful no one is around. With one last slam of his hips you’re coming undone, writhing against him and the wall. He keeps his arms hooked tightly around your thighs as he cums, too, releasing his final load of the night inside you. He keeps you upright against the wall until he’s sure you’re done riding out your high before letting you down gently, helping you get steady on your feet.

“Thank you, cyar’ika,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

“Of course, my love,” you say, “I had so much fun and I’m glad we finally have a home together.”

“Me, too,” he says, kissing your forehead.

He knows you’re exhausted and he wants to take care of you. So, he grabs the soap and starts washing you, lathering up your body as you hold onto him for stability. He rinses you off and washes himself quickly to get you into bed already. He helps you out of the refresher, keeping your hand in his as you step out. He grabs towels and wraps one around your shoulder and his own around his waist before walking you back to the bedroom. He helps you dry off, running the towel up and down your legs, across your back and the rest of your body. You both choose to sleep naked and pressed up against each other. You both crawl into bed, resting your head on his chest as he rubs your back and kisses the top of your head.

“I love you, cyar’ika,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too, Din,” you reply, feeling sleep start to overtake you.

“Oh!” he says suddenly, “We forgot the backyard.”

“Let it be a morning delight, my love,” you whisper.

“Deal,” he whispers back with one last kiss to the top of your head.

That was certainly a way to break in the new house.

End note: Thought of this idea today and it wouldn't leave me alone!! Send me requests for the tin can man, I’m a bit feral for him rn 😵‍💫

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