#celebrity worship is cringe

[feministfang]

Three brave women beat up a shopkeeper in islamic republic of Pakistan for harassing them and all the Pakistani men are so pissed off that they’re sending death threats to those women for taking action in their own hands instead of tolerating and calling some male authority or police. That piece of shit also filed a case against those women for abusing him and as a citizen of this trash country, i can tell he will win the case.

A 20 years old girl, Sania Zehra, was brutally tortured, raped and murdered by her husband, syed ali raza bukhari, when she was pregnant with her third child. This also happened in Pakistan on 8th of July. Now the same men are silent over this or trying to shove the issue of Palestine on feminist pages posting about Sania’s case because "far worst things are happening in the world". Meanwhile, Pakistani women are busy dick worshipping the victim’s father because "he must be so traumatised after losing his daughter like this. oh poor man!" As if that bitch isn’t at fault for making her daughter marry that old beast when she was probably 16.

Celebrities here are more concerned about men’s deteriorating mental health in this country as these lunatics think catering to men’s feelings will somehow fix them. What else can you expect from them when the entire world outside has progressed, but these dumbfucks are still portraying the same old cringe fairytale stories where a simple beautiful, but unfortunate girl falls in love with some ugly psychotic man and tolerates his abuse because "that’s true love 😍" and in the end, she’s successful in fixing him.

But when we speak a word against the atrocities women face in this country, all these people lose their minds and try to silence us to ensure the image of their fuckin country is not at risk of defamation and the lovely Pakistan can become an example of how peaceful islam is. Pakistani men (and most women here as well) are intolerant when it comes to the vilification of the image of their country and religion. And their asses start burning when they see someone ruining it. They even stoop so low to the level of satanism that they would not hesitate to send death threats to anyone making them look bad globally. A girl i was friends with on FB wished Malala another gunshot on her face by Taliban because of her anti-marriage stance.

This is why i urge y’all to please don’t stay silent on the issues women are facing in Pakistan. I never see global feminist pages talking about female oppression in this garbage country. Some feminists living in west also act like brown men are somehow better than white men and they’re more oppressed than white women because of racism, or that muslim men are better than christian bigots. Stop victimising brown muslim men. Not only are they hideous but also the misogyny the south asian society has shoved in their assholes is extremely disgusting and they keep shitting it on women everywhere they go, including white women.

I wouldn’t expect support from brainless libby feminists as they’re probably busy pulling their pants down on their favourite OF platforms or fighting misandry online, but i would love to see all the radfems speaking up for south asian women. Please make it known globally how the Pakistani islamic community is constantly oppressing women day by day.

Use the examples i stated above. Speak up for Sania Zehra!! Demand justice for her globally, and keep bashing corrupt Pakistani law system. Also, don’t forget to defame their religion. These people are most protective of their culture and religion. I don’t see any hope in this country for women, but there’s a chance they will start taking action and give proper justice to the victims in order to protect their so called dignity.

[barbiesmuse]

WELCOME TO NEW YORK ₊✧⋆

;ֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָjohn price + reader

summary: in which john finds a new column in the paper quite interesting, although he isn't the target audience he keeps coming back for more.

tags: perv!john, reader is somewhat slutty (but aren't we all?), talk of sex, reader and john masturbate, perv!john has a voice kink, john is also a hoe, reader is astute, john is painted in a more submissive way in reader's mind, when the true smut comes it won't be this way obv!! this is long as hell and i hate the way i wrote the end but i needed to get this out, reader being sexy as usual!!

HEAD BARBIE'S ANNOUNCEMENTS: hi gorgeous gorgeous people!! this is so silly and unexpected of me but with sex and the city being added to netflix we're going to celebrate!! i'm actually moving to NYC because this barbie has a boyfriend!! alright, now you may read. it's very long so beware!! also yes i did steal the name of carrie's blog i am not that creative i fear!! love you always, xoxo natty.

ps. y'alls little reblogs for better version headcanons & the fic were absolutely adorable i read them over and over!! your ideas and continuations were so so smart. i loved it soso much. if u ever have any thoughts send an ask!! thank you thank you thank you!! ₊✧⋆

Wednesday, October 20th.

John Price was a man who liked routine. If anything was even remotely out of order all hell would break loose. John saw it as a silly quirk, his past partners saw it as a deal breaker. Which is how he ended up here, watching his seventh girlfriend this year pack her things. He watched as she packed her belongings in a cluttered manner. He couldn't help but cringe at the sight. Her clothes overflowing as she stuffs them in the cardboard box. As she heads for the door, she and John make eye contact. John can't help but chuckle at her glare and wave her off, he told himself again and again that he was getting too damn old for this. As the girl walks out of his condo John can't help but sigh. It wasn't like he was attached to these women, they were just simple sleeves for his cock until he found a pretty little housewife. John runs a hand over his face, his beard hairs scratching against his palm. He lets out a low grunt before heading to bed, as he trudges up the stairs he spots the woman's red lace panties. He let out a quiet chuckle before picking them up and stuffing them inside his pocket. She'd left them on purpose. After all, John was a hard man to get over. He would worship you like you were a goddess, all to sneak out the next morning. Thursday, October 21st.

As John made his way into headquarters he picked up the newspaper, exchanged pleasantries with the secretaries, and even gave the nurse a nod. He was in a good mood, and when John was in a good mood all was right in the world. The sound of his heavy boots filled the halls as he made his way to the break room for his morning coffee. He threw the newspaper on the table before grabbing a mug, as Soap walks in he can't help but roll his eyes. He did not have the time for his childish banter. Not after he spent the whole night fisting himself with those red lace panties.

“Mornin' Cap, have a good weekend?” Soap says as he comes beside his Captain. He smelled of liquor and sex, his hair was disheveled, and his pants were unzipped. John let out a scoff before pouring the rest of the coffee into his mug. “No, but I can see you've had a good morning,” John says before licking the coffee that drips from the black pot. Soap lets out an embarrassed chuckle and takes a seat next to Price as he sits at a table.

Soap opens the newspaper and is met with the same column every time, written by a young female journalist. Soap would know because his wife practically lived off of it. He lets out an annoyed groan before turning to see any big news. There was none, the only interesting thing on the paper that morning was that damn fashion and gossip column. John quirked an eyebrow up at his exasperated expression, he didn't want to know, but the awkward silence in the room was slowly eating away at him.

“Sorry Cap, s' just this damn fashion column is what takes up the paper these days. S' all my wife talks about with her friends, I mean I get it. The journalist is a fuckin' babe. S' just annoyin', continue y'r coffee.” Soap rambles, although John doesn't really listen after the mention of Soap's wife. That woman had been eyeing him since Soap had joined the Task Force. John nods before speaking firmly, “We've got a briefing in less than twenty minutes, I suggest you fix yourself up now unless you have a kink for embarrassment.” Soap nods before scurrying out of the break room.

John grabs the newspaper and his eyes widen at the black and white picture of you. He could only imagine what you looked like in person, how fucking beautiful you were. You looked as if you belonged in the Louvre. His eyes trail down to your column, he can't help but chuckle at the name.

❝𝐒𝐞𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲!❞ The guide to Vogue, sex, and cigarettes.

John was more than intrigued he was captivated by you, even from words you had caught him by the balls. As he continued reading he couldn't help but start to wonder who you were. How did you get to be this mysterious woman who he craved to know more about? John grabbed the paper and left the break room, his coffee now cold and lonely. Hell, who needed it when you had given him just enough energy by showing the tiniest bit of cleavage! John walks into the briefing room as if he's in a hurry. He looks around at the men before mumbling, “Meetings canceled.” In ten minutes you had thrown John completely off of his game. Where was the order and routine he usually lived for? Had he thrown it all out the window for a pretty little minx such as yourself? Of course, because when John saw something he liked; he needed to have it. No matter what it took. John barges into his office and locks his door, he couldn't be seen reading some girly column in the paper. His eyes trailed down to your column, and he began reading his eyes squinting at the use of your tiny font.

❝𝐒𝐞𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲!❞ The guide to Vogue, sex, and cigarettes.

Why do all men have to be so complicated? I swear we women deserve a raise for the constant bullshit we put up with. It's almost impossible to find a man who isn't trying to keep his penis hard! Although I degrade men usually, one of my closest friends just got engaged! He's one of the few who deserve a pat on the back. The engagement was out of a movie almost! Although it's nowhere near close to happening for me, I can live vicariously through my friends. As I sit here and right to you I can't help but wonder if there actually is a man out there for me? I'm not as scary as I sound, I just have a passion for women's rights! What's so scary about that? It's not as if I'm some lock-ness monster trying to lure people in, just a woman who knows her worth. On a happier note, I've found a new bar called the “Cafe Society.” They open at five o'clock every day! They have some of the best espresso martinis I've ever had, and I consider myself a connoisseur of espresso martinis! I go every Thursday, come see me! Although this month's column is short I'll be back and better than ever before you know it. Might just need a man to pick me up and show me a good time, until then you might not know where to find me most of the time; but you can always find me on the 21st. Lots of love.

On the twenty-first, your column was in the newspaper every month. Finally, something else to look forward to besides fucking brainless women. He usually didn't like women who put up a fight, but you, God, there was something about you. You were such a breath of fresh air, you had opinions. He could tell you were able to hold a conversation. You were a woman. Not a girl, a fucking woman. John looked at the date, Thursday. What a perfect little setup, almost as if you planned it just for him. At least, that's what John would like to think. The time was currently 12:35 pm, he could last until five, only for a pretty girl like you.

Thursday, October 21st. 5:00.

As John walks into Cafe Society the first thing he sees is you, setting your purse on the bar counter and making conversation with the bartenders. He figured they knew you well considering you were a regular. He walked over to the bar, exhaling slowly. He takes a seat on the stool next to you. His cologne gently clouded your nose. You look over at him, your gorgeous eyes meet his cold brown eyes and he swears he's in heaven. “Captain John Price, a pleasure to meet you,” he trails off, waiting to be told your name. After hearing your name he swears he's been struck by Cupid himself. He can hear the winged baby chanting your name in his ear. Had you cast a spell on him? As a soft smile paints your sweet face he knows he's struck gold. You turn away, not sparing him another glance for the rest of the night. John's palms are sweaty, had he not charmed you enough? You were an enigma to him, and he was determined to figure you out.

As you get up from your seat, slinging your mini purse around your shoulder John smirks. You were such a pretty sight, the way your curves filled your skirt made him spiral. You shoot him a tight-lipped smile before walking out, your heels clicking echoing in his mind. He quickly gets up, placing a hundred-dollar bill in the bar to pay for his drink before rushing to find you. There you were, looking around for a taxi, he assumed.

“Ending the night so early?” John says, a chuckle escaping his lips as he accidentally startles you. He places his large hand on your shoulder. You let out a soft giggle, looking up at him with those same fiery eyes. “Well, unfortunately, the man at the bar didn't speak to me. I assumed he was married.” You say, a grin resting on your face. You were witty, John didn't usually like that in a woman. He liked more submissive women. But you, you were different. You held your own, you would be just fine without a husband. At least that's what you kept telling yourself after the failed relationships.

“Quite far from married, darlin',” He begins, his hand trailing down to your lower back. You shiver at his touch and he hesitates. You give him a reassuring glance and begin to walk, you wait for him to follow before letting out a playful sigh. “You coming or what?” You say and smile as he quickly catches up. The two of you walk side by side, a comforting silence cast over the two of you. “So besides being a captain, what do you do in your free time?” You ask, a bashful smile painting your face as your pinkies touch briefly.

“Not much, work usually takes up a lot of my time. What about you? What do you do for a living?” He asks, you look up at him and as you pass a newspaper stand you pick up a paper and point to your face. “Journalist, Mr. Captain.” You say with a cheeky smile, almost as if you knew he knew. It hurt your ego he didn't know who you were, almost everyone did. “Ah, interesting,” He says calmly, his eyes trailing down to your breasts, fuck. They were even better in person. He couldn't help but mentally facepalm as he felt a hard-on begin to grow.

“Quite,” you say, pronouncing your “T.” sharply. The silence is now not-so-comforting. Before you can say anything John quickly speaks, a hint of panic in his voice. What had changed in the last twenty-one seconds? The size of his hard-on, that's what. “As much as I'd love to stay n' chat doll, I've got to get home. Th-the missus needs me.” He says before quickly walking to his car. The missus? Didn't he say he wasn't married?

Men, what a bunch of fucking assholes.

Thursday, October 21st. 11:00.

As you lie in bed, your computer resting to your side, glasses perched on your face. Legs spread, lip drawn between your teeth you search for everything there is to know about Captain John Price. How old is he, what he truly does for a living, and if he is married or not. Various pictures of random men come up, none of them the sexy captain you'd met only a few hours earlier. You sigh and let out a sexually frustrated moan, how could there be absolutely no pictures of him. Just as you're about to give up you spot a picture of him with a woman, they're kissing and they seem to be in a tropical setting.

Intrigue takes over and you decide to click on her page, double-checking your incognito window before scrolling. You'd hit the jackpot. Several pictures of the woman and John flood your screen, some are more sensual others are simple selfies. Yet as you scroll you check for one thing, a ring and or wedding pictures. A small smile on your face as you find none. Gosh, he looks so damn sexy. It's shameful, truly. But you can't help but dip your hand down into your panties. Your pointer and middle finger rub gentle circles on your bud.

You can't help but slip a finger inside yourself at the thought of him touching you. He was just so perfect, you could only imagine how his rough beard would feel against your pussy as he laps at it. The burning feeling would feel good, you'd come right on his tongue. He'd be so needy for you, humping against the bed to get himself off while he pleasures you. He'd whimper against your clit, a chuckle escaping his lips as you whine from him blowing cold air on your pretty pussy.

Oh, you just know he'd touch you so well.

As John sits in his bed, his gray sheets crinkled as he fucks his fist at the sight of you. He'd searched the internet for you, needing to know everything about you. You made him crazy, you carried yourself in such a polite manner, he almost felt ashamed for wishing it was your hand wrapped around his veiny cock. You'd take him so well, he was sure of it. A sinister smirk painted his face as he clicked on an interview of you, it was recent and fuck you looked perfect. He couldn't help but imagine your plump lips wrapped around his cock, his tip repeatedly hitting the back of your throat as he face-fucked you.

Not to mention how well you'd take him, you were such a good girl. Your moans would be so pretty against his pillow, he'd fuck you from behind so well you'd be shaking when he was done with you. Your sweet sounds only making him come quicker, he was sure he wouldn't be able to last long. And your voice, your sweet voice. You might've been a little firecracker but your voice was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard. If only you'd moan his name, just for him. One day, you would and he was damn sure of it.

As you come down from your high you can't help but imagine the title for next month's column, “My shameful addiction to Mr. Captain.”

[moyazaika]

could you imagine a rapper yandere that disses anyone that even MENTIONS their darling/"girlfriend" is a way that isn't worshipping. and he disses hard.

When I say "girlfriend" I mean, the rapper knows the name, address, occupation, phone number, email, etc, has a shrine full of photos that he hired people to take over someone that doesn't know anything about it.

reader is just another person who listens to music and knows his name in passing and his reputation for dissing anyone who talks "bad" about his girl. reader respects it, but doesn't really listen to rap so they move on with their life, completely unaware that THEY are the girl.

it's a complete coincidence that the features and traits that he raps about are the exact same as them. There are plenty of people with that trait.

and no one bats an eye that no photos of the "girlfriend" exists to the public. It's no surprise someone with his level of fame would want to keep their girl private.

"I saw you yesterday at your grandma's, it's a real shame what happened to your grandpops, I need some new fertilizer in my garden, been growing some bad crops, your girl Morgan so bad you're getting blowjobs from your grandma?"

*camera noises*

(I'm not a rapper, apologies for ✨cringe✨)

hey so please don’t apologise i actually fucking love this idea. 😭😭❤️‍🩹 this would be so so cute bonus points for being set in the early 2000’s so we’re in that era of pop and rap where it’s rlly just a few big names dominating the charts, the fun awards shows, cool fashion; y2k baby!

and in this new age of music you’ve got this chart topping rapper who (unlike the other guys in his genre) seems to be rapping not about his opps or his cars or his cash or his bitches but… how much he loves his gf. it’s incredibly endearing.

if only his gf actually knew she was dating him!

and when he stays on top of those charts, wins all those music awards; there’s bound to be jealousy and bitter envy. other artists complain. celebrity interviewers and journalists eat it up; “so what do you think of this mystery girl that seems to be the subject of all his music?”

his competitor rolls his eyes, “dumb as fuck, the both of them. always banging on about how lovely she is how pretty and smart she is… this bitch is a one hit wonder, you feel me?”

… he did not like that. drake vs kanye 2.0 ensues except this time there is no coming back for the poor soul who has the balls to say that. rapper ‘bf’ puts the poor guy’s life on blast.

‘industry plant? least i’m not a plant by the government / makin’ sure them anti bullying campaigns is working.”

okay, that’s not so bad right?

“your funny’s up, but your syndrome’s down, like your money after i put this out—but your dick stays up / when you drive ‘round and look for little boys to spend a night with in town.”

oh! well. looks like nobody’s going to mention this mysterious girl rapper bf adores so much ever again :’)

[alpydk]

I've had a brainworm (tadpole?) that won't leave my head.

How would Gale's partner (Tav or Origin) react to him unintentionally saying Mystra's name during sex?

I don't think he would say it as his ex, but rather an exclamation ("Oh Gods", "By Mystra", etc).

I know I wouldn't be pleased. 😵‍💫

"By Mystra"

Anon, you are a miracle worked because I loved writing this. Like this is literally smut that I did not cringe my way through or go ugh why... Like I actually sent a quote to someone whilst writing this in a mini celebration of enjoyment. Really so much fun, so thank you. - I will say though it's probably not what you wanted at all. Oops. (Or maybe it is, I'm not a psychic.)

Word count : 1570 - M/E - It's Smut, there's nothing but smut here. I couldn't even angst this fucker up. - Gale x Tav (F)

The evening had gone along as it normally would. Gale and Tav entertained his mother with the local gossip of Waterdeep, fresh tea leaves releasing their aroma into the study, the odd whisper shared between the happily married couple. The sun was now making its leisurely stroll towards the horizon and Tav had now moved onto round two of the game she affectionately liked to call Nimble fingers, ill intent. The first round would be innocent enough, the odd remark about how he looked nice when sat in certain positions or a passing comment about times they had spent alone given with a sultry look. “Oh yes, I remember that tavern, Morena. The detail on the oak bed posts were exquisite. Real craftsmanship.” Round two was based more on the physical aspects of distraction and competition: the lick of a teaspoon after eating dessert, the run of her hand along his thigh under the dinner table, the whisper in his ear of how she seemed to have forgotten her underwear. “Oh, it was nothing Morena, a quick reminder about a certain someone’s birthday.”

These nights were still as enjoyable as they were the first time around a campfire. Hands slipped under robes, concentration lapsing into yearning, travelling companions none the wiser of the exploits taking place. She would make him forget all logic, all reason, all devotion he ever had to his goddess.

He couldn’t get rid of his mother quick enough as he watched Tav lean over the coffee table to collect up the cutlery, her lilac shirt hanging a little lower than suitable and knowingly it was in full view of him. He saw the way her breasts hung against the cloth, the line of her cleavage drawing his gaze without mercy. After so much teasing, he didn’t just want her; he needed her desperately, as if he had been trapped underwater and she was his only source of air to breathe.

As the entrance door of the tower closed, signalling Morena’s exit, Gale was quick to press Tav to the wall of the stairwell; her wrists bound under his firm hand, the other travelling under the fabric of her shirt to place its mark on the previously taunting flesh. His lips found hers with an intensity he refused to hold back on, more eager than his well-mannered nature with his mother had let on. They navigated the stairs up to the tower quickly, a trail of cotton and leather left in their wake.

Heated kisses were placed over naked bodies, his flushed lips along her neck, her wanting hands travelling from his abdomen to his hips. The royal blue sheets of the bed were always the goal, but rarely did they make it there, instead ending up on the daybed or, more often, the scarlet floral rug that lay at the foot of the bed. From there, he would see her lying and waiting, her body moistened and ready for him, her eyes beckoning him with a love he would give himself to again and again. For a thousand nights, he would worship her in so many ways: some nights slowly with a tender caress of her inner thigh, others more playful, a nibble of her shoulder, and the teasing of his fingertips. Within the four walls of the bedroom, he was the one in control; he was the god to a single follower.

He nudged her leg aside with his own, climbing towards her, his urges to take her driving him forward with little thought of anything else. It was as he took her nipple in his mouth, the flick of his tongue creating the unwilling whimper emerge from her, that he felt her hand push him ever so slightly. This was new, a sign of dominance from one who normally welcomed his practiced tongue so openly.

He accepted the reaction, Tav’s hands coming up to his shoulders, rolling him to his back with a tentative push. He lay beneath her, her legs straddled over his hips, her breasts hanging just above his chest. His heart beat with an intensity he only felt as she teased, the devious look in her eyes telling him this wouldn’t be as easy as an impromptu lanceboard match. She held herself above him, the heat of her cunt drawing him in. He craved her touch, yearned to be inside her and have her entirely and yet she watched him, waited for his control to falter as it always did around her.

“Please...” He whispered underneath her. He would not beg, nor would he lower himself to that level of pleading he'd done so long ago, but he would ask if that is what she wanted of him. He would do anything for her if it meant he could show his love for her.

She sunk down onto him, her pace relaxed, her hands sliding their way up his chest. He felt the slow roll of her hips, his own body instinctively retorting with an impatient jolt. She stopped and sat up above him, a disappointed sigh that told him he’d done something wrong.

“My apologies... I... I became too eager-“

She rose and took him again in one quick thrust, a command that she was in charge. Without warning, he let out a deep growl, his self-control slowly unravelling with the growing intensity of her movements. He could feel the way her hand held down his shoulder, the fingernails of the other embedding themselves in the skin of his abdomen. What were once relaxed whines were slowly becoming the sputtered moans of his name through gritted teeth. She was fighting this as much as he was and he could feel the way her body was arching, trying to hold back on a climax that threatened to break through at any moment.

He closed his eyes, the symphony of ecstasy ringing in his ears, his body still accepting her pace despite how much he wished to just grab her and fuck her. He neared his precipice, one he had fallen from so many times with Tav, one he would happily fall from a thousand times more and he parted his lips, the sensation too much to contain. “By Mystra...”

Tav’s movements stopped suddenly, an abrupt silence that took him a moment to register before realising what had happened. She looked down at him with a combination of confusion and offense. “Did you just...?”

He felt the icy chill in the pit of his stomach, his practised tongue letting him down the moment he wasn’t the one in control of the situation. He hadn’t meant it as anything but an exclamation of pleasure, but he knew it was not the most welcome name after all that happened, especially when said in the bedroom. “Tav, I did not mean-“

She broke him off with another quick roll of her hips, a smirk curling upon her reddened lips. “Say it again.”

Gale looked at her with confusion. “Say what exactly?”

Tav bucked against him, an irritable look in her eyes. “Her name. Say it again.”

He was unsure what she meant, the rules of their game changing with each state of play. Lanceboard had been left in the dusty halls of the library; now they played a completely different game of strategy, one where he was but a novice. “Mystra...” he spoke with an uncertainty in his tone.

This time Tav’s movements were gentler, slower, and more deliberate. His head leaned back onto the rug, the red fibres weaving with his brown locks.

“Again,” she commanded.

He obeyed without doubt. “Mystra...”

She smiled, her hands moving from his shoulder down to his hips, her back arching, and pelvis tilting ever so slightly, allowing him to feel her in full. With each jolt he felt his muscles begin to tremble, the goddess’ name gasped through worshipping lips. And yet he prayed not to her but to the goddess that wrapped her thighs around him, the one whose sweat beaded with his own, the one that called his name as her hands found his.

She tightened around him, all control gone, nothing else mattering but the fought off release that now consumed her senses. She let out one guttural cry, only interrupted by the deep thrusts as Gale chased his own orgasm. What had been the Lady of Magic’s name had now become the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. Tav sputtered out as wave upon wave of pleasure erupted forth from him, as muscles grew taut and his body buried itself into as far as it possibly could.

She fell limp around him, his arm wrapping around her in a loving embrace as he pulled her onto the floor with him. Their skin glistened with sweat, the air now humid, the only sound being their panted breathing as they regained their composure. The sensation of a light charge brushing against his skin brought him to smile, a devilish knowing of exactly what Tav had done with her control over him. The goddess’ name, spoken in worship, in devotion, would of course have drawn her attention, if only for a moment. He placed a soft kiss on Tav’s forehead, tonight’s game most assuredly her victory.

“With you, I forget my goddess...” She titled her head up to look at him, an almost innocent gaze in her eyes. “I just wanted to make sure that was still the case.”

[themultifanshipper]

George knew he was fucked.

Well, preferably he was going to be doing the fucking.

Warnings: being disgusting in public, infidelity? Kinda fluffy? Idk

George spotted you from across the paddock on media day. You were new on the media team but you were already proving to be a force to be reckoned with. Didn't take anyone's bullshit, didn't ask mundane, stupid questions that made the drivers internally cringe. You were smart, that much was obvious the first time meeting you, and it didn't take long for the drivers to warm to you, especially George.

He was instantly drawn to you and always went out of his way to talk to you first, guaranteeing he'd be in a good mood for the rest of the day.

Then he spotted you from across the dance floor after the last race of the season, at some overpriced privatised club everyone was invited to celebrate at.

You were wearing a strapless thing that showed off your figure, perhaps more than was appropriate, but it was certainly effective in making sure you caught his eye constantly, only leaving the dance floor periodically to get drinks.

Every time you walked past him he would catch your eye and you would exchange winks and conspiratorial grins.

That night, he decided he needed you. He walked over and you danced awkwardly for a while, in true George fashion, but the songs got slower and it quickly turned into dirty whispers and roaming hands.

If you asked anyone else, your behaviour would be qualified as indecent, and even Lando, the expert on public indecency, told you to "maybe cool it a bit". But George's thigh between your legs made it hard to think straight and soon enough the two of you needed your clothes off.

You inevitably ended up in his hotel room and he picked you apart, learning the ins and outs of your body.

He made you writhe, gasp, shiver and moan in pitches you didn't know you could manage, and you knew you were screwed. Ruined for anyone else.

That was the first time. And you both knew it wouldn't be the last. His house, his drivers room, various private jets, clubs, hotels all around the world, Charles' yacht (that was a night to remember, Charles' scream still ringing out in the collective memory).

You were convinced Carmen knew about it. How could she not? The two of you were inseperable, fucking like rabbits all over the place. It was clear to anyone who knew the two of you that you were made for each other.

But as it turned out Carmen didn't care at all, only interested in sponsors and her carefully curated PR image that made her rich. So the only reputation their breakup could hurt was George's.

And it didn't really hurt it, let's be honest. Famous, popular Mercedes formula 1 driver George Russell could pick whoever the fuck he wanted, and that was you.

You celebrated with champagne and a very drunken, very public wedding in Vegas at the Grand Prix, which just happened to be the next weekend...

It was quite the blowout. All the drivers showed up, showering you in champagne which almost made you cry with how symbolic it was of their acceptance of you into the F1 family.

But it didn't take long for you and George to dissappear into the night together, stumbling along, giggling away as you made your way slowly up to your hotel room.

He undressed you carefully, worshipping your body like it was made just for him. He spent over an hour between your legs, sliding his tongue over every inch of skin he could find, sucking and biting the sensitive skin until you were begging him for release, which he took pleasure in denying over and over again.

When he finally slid into you, rubbing gentle circles over your clit, you were so riled up you came instantly. The feeling of being filled and stretched enough to send you over the edge.

He didn't stop though as you held on to his hair and scratched down his back, driving the final nail in the coffin that sent him over the edge as well.

You fell asleep like that, and when you woke up you went again, and then once again after breakfast, plastic ring pops hanging on to your fingers for dear life.

You were in love with George Russell, and he was equally in love with you.

Horny bastards that you were.

[apocalypse-shuffle]

THE PHANTOM | ERIK (multi iteration)

—

“An Amati to be Worshipped” (Erik Destler |The Phantom of the Opera x Fem!Reader)

| Erik just can’t keep that mysterious demeanor about him in check when it comes to you. Or his temper. Or his lust.

| NSFW, 18+, minors dni, violinist!reader, (TW: stalker!erik, non con voyeurism, masturbation) questionable history/depictions of 1800’s French culture (I tried)

| picture source: shots from Ben Crawford & Emilie Kouatchou’s run as The Phantom & Christine on broadway

| 1k+ words

In one word Erik was miserable.

His truest obsession, his sweet violinist, was out sick and as such he didn’t get to peer down upon her from box five as she drew those elegant fingers across her bow and string.

He missed her sun worshipped skin like a starving man missed food. She stood out like the brightest star from the pit. Playing her violin like it came as easy as breathing, much in the way Erik himself played his many well versed instruments.

Watching the performance earlier that night had been truly disappointing. Not even Christine’s voice could make up for the lack of the melodic rises and falls that came from his violinist’s strings. It was a clear missing puzzle piece in the whole show. One that irked him down to his soul and made him vow to gut the hapless fool in your place while you recovered.

And he wanted to curse that too.

The newest stage hand had forgone cleaning up the stage after pre-rehearsal a few days ago and you, his greatest muse, had slipped and fallen.

Your decent from the stage to the pit had almost made him reveal himself from his elevated position in the rafts. You’d dropped so abruptly, so thoroughly, that you’d screamed. A wretched sound forced from your mouth that had made even Erik gasp and want to reach for your fallen form.

Erik himself, with that fear and fury still thriving through his very spirit, had only just come from doing what he promised when he saw the tears tracking down your face. He’d gutted DuBoi within an inch of his life, the worm wasn’t worth being taken to his torture chamber, and left him to rest for his remaining hours as he chocked on his own tongue.

He stomped through his passage ways now, in search of you of course. After avenging your ails he was near giddy to get back to what he’d taken up doing since your most unfortunate injury.

He rounded the narrow corner to your bed chambers in the sick bay and hummed lightly as his eyes finally lay upon your form.

You were exquisite.

He could watch you for hours, and did. With the opera house quieting down after the night’s lackluster show and Christine not being due for a lesson, his presence was not needed anywhere else as twilight descended.

You mostly read, books from Senegal that were in a French dialect he was too unfamiliar with to read easily, and worked on your music. That was always his favorite part of the night.

Whenever everyone retired to their shared quarters you would sneak off, usually to the roof, lean against the Angel statue and pull out your beaten pieces of sheet music to write on. You’d hand draw the measure lines with steady hands and the finest ink you owned and then you’d be off.

Many a night Erik had watched as you embarked on the painstaking, and very familiar, process of writing your own music. You wrote, playing on your violin to check your song, until your eyes started to droop and the sun began to peak in the horizon.

You’d cringe, sigh, laugh and celebrate on the roof at your melodies, good and bad, and Erik would watch and wish to celebrate alongside you. To help guide you into finding your musical voice. To embrace you in your combined cheer.

He longed like no other to feel the touch of another. Of companionship.

There’d been many nights that he’d fantasized of stealing you away. As far as he was concerned the light of mundane people didn’t deserve to be blessed by your darkness. A darkness that he’d cherish. That he’d compliment, even.

Your songs weren’t amazing by any measure, you were clearly a beginner, but they were yours and he lived to hear you.

He’d read you music, even hummed your baby masterpiece in his free time. Tweaked little bits and sung it to you until the subtle change in tune got stuck in your head and you’d put the tweaks to paper. Even twisting them again yourself to fit your song more preferably. He always liked your changes immensely, and was honored that you mixed parts of him into that bit of your soul.

You were doing that tonight, in fact. Last night he played a new idea on his own violin. Behind the walls as you’d slept he’d had the pleasure of serenading you and now that his melody had sneaked into your subconscious mind you were writing away.

Erik closed his eyes as you began to play. Even bedridden without an audience, and your own choppy tune being strung together, you were amazing.

He listens to you for hours. Ear practically up against the wall Erik stays up and then subsequently falls asleep with you.

When he wakes he can tell the sun hasn’t risen yet by the dead silence that meets him but he knows you’re asleep. When he rises from his seated position in the cramped pathway and looks through the peephole to the sick room he confirms his guess. The area is still lit but you yourself are passed out, having seemingly been in the midst of playing until the moon’s siren song pulled you under.

He watches you silently. Eyes tracing your figure. Your dark skin just about twinkles under the harsh lights. The yellow lighting of the gas lamp doesn’t do you justice and yet somehow you manage to enrapture him still.

Your shut eyes flutter as he looks upon you. A smile graces his lips; you're enchanting. He wants to be able to speak with you. To mark the creases of your smile up close. To trust you with the secrets of why he hides in the shadows. To feel what it'd be like to have and to hold you.

To feel you succumb to him.

Completely.

He can’t help it. Almost against his wishes his mind turns to thoughts of you beneath him. To the way your skin would yield to his hands and his to yours.

To the arch of your bodies pressed together and the sounds he would siphon from your plush lips.

It makes him squirm in place as he watches you with different eyes. Sinful ones.

His eyes travel down your body and instantly Erik knows how he’s going to spend the rest of the opera’s still hours. Your allure too strong and Erik too weak for you.

Unable to tear his eyes away from your breasts, Erik can only desire the pleasure of the flesh having his sweet violinist would bring. Your satisfaction has long been made a priority of his after all. It would only make sense for him to satisfy your more…sexual needs.

Even though he could only dream of it currently.

He imagines himself in there now. How he’d start by putting his hand to your cheek, the first touch of another’s skin he’d have in decades. He closes his eyes as his breath stutters out of him.

He would challenge the very God Christine prays to every night, a fool's errand perhaps -but one he would happily embark on, for the chance to see the stark contrast of his skin against yours.

Once more he opens his eyes to gaze upon you. He imagines after he touches your cheek he’d let his fingers trace down your throat and sternum before pausing just above your breasts. Trembling slightly, Erik thinks of caressing and cupping them, of running his thumbs over your dusk nipples. Marveling at how lovely they felt in his hands. Of the gentle sounds you’d give him in return.

Not letting himself think, he lets his hands travel over his own body, cape falling to the floor as he unclips it. He pictures leaning down, putting his lips around your right nipple, and beginning to circle it with his tongue while gently pinching the left one.

He imagines the way your eyes would flutter as he stimulates you with his mouth. Tongue gently sweeping over the stiff peaks of your nipples as you sighed your satisfaction.

Thereafter is when he allows himself to fully succumb to his rampant imagination. All his dreams of whimsy coming through in his mind's eye.

He thinks of you waking up, of skilled dark fingers moving to gently lift his head up, of the smile you’d give him.

“Was last night not enough? Have you come back for more?”

“Whatever you will give me.” Erik sends his own smile back. An action his face is largely unused to but that he is happy to make happen for you.

Your fingers run over the top of his head, through the few skant hairs there.

“Then give me your full devotion,” you say and Erik’s heart sours before he’s going back to your chest.

He says, "With pleasure," and lightly bites your nipple, pleased to feel you shudder.

He’s had the pleasure of learning recently that you were extremely responsive to touch and by god does he wish to apply that knowledge.

Erik then allows himself to fully be given to conjured images of you giving way beneath him. To him delving between your folds and the heavenly noises you make for him.

The thought of you crying out his name is what finally has him spurting into his hands, stuttering gasps falling from his mouth.

When Erik next opens his eyes, the scene of you so beautifully coming undone seared behind his lids, there are tears stuck to his lashes and pooling in his eyes.

His breath hiccups from his chest as he relaxes his hold on his cock. The spent organ flopping onto his thigh.

Erik allows himself to gaze upon you once more, something near shame threatening to claw through him as a few droplets cascade down his cheek, before the morning settles and he is once again back to the reality of being known no longer.

A monster forever bound to his faith hidden in the looming loneliness of shadows as his only company.

Its only shining light being you.

NOTES: Ohhhhhhhh. I hope y’all liked this. I just live for Erik being a needy pathetic simp.

P.S: I won’t respond cause this is a side blog but I do like comments, you can leave one.

[violetmarkings]

Warm | Goo Gunil

Genre: smut, fluff, R18

Pairing: Goo Gunil x female reader

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: service top Gunil, soft soft sex, nipple play, oral (f rec.), V fingering, some face riding, WORSHIP, mutual adoration, kissing but make it like, really hot

A/n: I love this man sm

Gunil was warm.

A warmth that once felt, you knew you'd want it to seep into your bones; you knew you'd want to carry it with you through every single cold winter day. A warmth that celebrated life and revitalized you.

When you get home, body aching and the cells of your muscles tired; you change clothes and lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling - it was a quiet little ritual. You weren't going to fall asleep, and yet all the things you wanted to do seemed so far away.

"Gunggun?" You heard your boyfriend shuffle around in the hallway, and called out to him. Lately he's been roaming around the house with his nose buried in a book - something he couldn't put down, about the conditions necessarily to be met so that a planet could be deemed habitable for humans - and sometimes he walks into doors.

"Yes, love?" His head peaks into the room, and upon seeing you make grabby hands at him, he comes in and lays his book on the desk.

Before meeting Gunil, you thought lovers calling each other 'love' was something only to be seen in movies, in romance stories of old, and if someone were to do that in real life, you'd cringe beyong belief. Well, you had to rise up your tolerance to cringe and sappiness, because you found out pretty early on that Gunil had no shame. His lips would spill the cheesiest, most overdramatic love declarations without as much as a stutter. Sweet, shameless, warm Gunil.

"Hug me?" You plead, arms open to welcome him. He simply hums and slots himself on top of your body, carefully wrapping around you with practiced precision so that you'd both be comfortable. Immediately his warmth begins to pool inside your aura, colors blending into an abstract painting called love.

"Rough day?" He asks gently, placing soft kisses on the expense of your neck.

"No, just tired. Physically. And your body warmth always soothes me." You begin run a hand through his hair, before you're interrupted by his snort.

"Personal heater." He laughs, but when he rises his head from your shoulder he's sporting a goofy smile. "I'm really happy I can comfort you." He's as genuine as the wag of a puppy's tail, and soon your reaching down to kiss his forehead while his eyes flutter closed. Sweet, adorable, warm Gunil.

He goes back to kissing your neck and you go back to running your fingers through his hair. Your chest is beating onto his, his chest is beating onto yours, and with a carefully placed kiss to your pulse, Gunil makes you sigh and arch your body. A new kind of warmth starts to travel into your body, but it doesn't go into your bones, it shoots into your veins. It makes your blood rush, your skin buzz, and you grow hungry for more.

"Kiss me?" You ask, and the smirk on Gunil's face is completely obvious.

"I thought you'd never ask." He flirts, and your lips are captured before you can make any comment about his seductive intentions.

Kissing Gunil always had your mouth chasing after his. Always wishing for one more second, for one more taste of him. It was like kissing honey; a strange metaphor - sweet, sticky and addictive. He's cradling your face in his hands, honey dripping from the corner of your mouth, your lips so sticky they refused to part, your lungs refused to breathe. You're gasping, kissing loudly and digging fingers into each other's shoulders.

He's like hot, melted gold. Your lips press into it and shape it, shape the gold to the mold of your lips, shape him with the intensity of your love. He moves down to suck on your neck, and the shape you've molded into the gold becomes a decorative necklace around your neck.

As he decorates you, his fingers sneak under your shirt. His touch, his fingers, they're the scorching, but kindly. Pleasant sweats roll down your body as he warmly traces the shape of your hips, the sides of your bellybutton, and going up.

You remove your shirt to offer him access and he doesn't waste any time. His fingers circle your nipples, featherlight, watching then rise up to meet him. He's rubbing them and flicking them with such care, it shoots pleasure straight to your core. You can physically feel yourself get wet, and you moan for him. When he catches your nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, he rubs them with intention. He wants to see you fall apart, thing which you totally do. He knows what he's doing, making you arch your chest into him. His hips in-between your legs make it hard for you to get any friction, and your dying to rub your thighs together.

As he continues to roll your nipples between his fingers, effectively milking you of pleasure, he leans down to kiss your breasts.

"So sensitive. So sexy, my goddess." You moan in response and he showers you in kisses, his mouth trailing down, his hands following suit and grasping the shape of your ass. "May I?" Fingers hooked on your pants, he stares right into your eyes as he asks for consent.

"Please." You're desperate and overflowing with love and arousal, and rejoice as your clothes finally leave you.

"Oh, you don't need to beg, my love. To my goddess, I give anything."

You were pretty sure he was magical. He had to be magic itself to make you feel so mythological, so all powerful, as his tongue gingerly met your clit. He was gentle, teasing even, as he began his work. But you were awfully drenched already, one trip of his tongue from your entrance to your clit made you messy and sticky, just how he loved it. He lapped you up, the flat of his tongue exploring you, the tip sometimes stopping in its track to deliver sharp, intense pleasure to your bundle of nerves. And then, he'd wrap his lips around it, sucking as one of his fingers entered your tight walls. When there was less of a fight from your clenching hole, he added a second. You were squeezing his fingers so tight, because of your clit being stimulated relentlessly, that he could barely move his fingers to rub your front wall. The sounds were ungodly, the squelching proof of how he effectively seduced you with his wordship. And yet, to him, you were a heavenly sight.

So close, you were so, so close. Falling apart under him, he drank you up in your disheveled state - whining, writhing, moaning and calling his name like a mantra. He worshipped you like he was at the altar and yet you were the one chanting his name.

You loudly complained when his fingers left your walls and replaced his tongue on the task of rubbing your clit. He clearly wasn't trying to edge you, what was he doing?

"Grab my hair and ride my face." He told you, and you swore it the most shameless thing you've ever heard. And also the hottest.

With your hands tangled in his hair, you began to roll your lips on his flattened tongue. Soon you were a shaking, stuttering mess, his mouth covered in drool and arousal, his eyes bearing into yours with a passion that made your stomach turn. You were sure this man would kill for you.

He made you see stars, record fast. His lips continued to work you through your orgasm as you tried to come down, to regain your breath and calm your heart.

As soon as he wiped off his mouth with his arm, he climbed up your body to kiss your face. You had the biggest, most content smile on your face. Gunil smiled brightly himself, upon seeing you so happy.

"Are you okay, my love? Feeling warm yet?" He was both checking up on you and also teasing you, but you had nothing to hide. His flame had warmed you up from the inside, his passion had scorched you, and his sinful lips wrote secret spells on your body. He enchanted you for eternity.

"So, so warm." You replied, and although you were stark naked and he was fully clothed, he hugged you tightly once again, to really make sure you don't grow cold.

Sweet, sexy, warm Gunil.

---------------------

If you like my work, consider supporting me on my Ko-Fi!

-Admin Starlight ⭐

[riewritten]

YOU CAN LOVE ME EVEN MORE TONIGHT

ERWIN SMITH X FEM!READER

TAGS: porn without plot, masturbation, overstimulation, oral sex (m!receiving), creampie, body worship, multiple orgasms, bodily fluids, also my usual referenced noncon where erwin helps you overcome it, then you rewarding him for serving you with reverence, and idk just rie's usual filthy smut i think

WORDS: 2.1k

REMARKS: HAPEE BIRTHDAY ERWIN. to celebrate, this is a smut spoiling him rotten.

Your muscles are tingling, eyes lurking everywhere but him. Erwin senses your worry; hence, he holds your hand in comfort. "You okay? Oh no, you're sweating too much."

"I think it's one of the days again…"

You don't need to expound. Erwin knows well what it is about. You apologetically look at him, guilt riddling your nerves because of something you can't control.

"I wouldn't mind. Stop flashing that guilty look at me." Despite the firm command, his smile is warm and understanding. "What limits do I have in touching you for now? Are you comfortable with me holding your hand at least?"

When you were still new in the relationship, you always cried when awoken with a body that cringes at the thought of physical intimacy. Erwin told you that it wasn't your fault in any way. That healing isn't linear. You messily wept about how afraid you are that this could ruin your relationship as Erwin's fond of the said intimacy. Still, he told you not to undermine his capacity to understand you. It was a strict reminder, perhaps an order, but the way his smile could still be oh-so warm and understanding amidst would always be a wonder. Thanks to that, you eventually got accustomed to it.

"I think the best we could go for now is cheek kisses…? Hehe."

"Sounds great," he goes on to do just that. "What great progress you've made there," then calls your name in a slight tease, "you're now able to pinpoint your limits without crying."

"Yeah, your lectures bore fruit, I'd say.

"Heh, as it should. You're a bit hard-headed, after all."

Erwin returns your honesty by speaking his limits, too. You still lie together in bed at night. Still, when the cuddles unintentionally arouse him, he'd call for a break, albeit in slight guilt. You would nod in consideration, thankful that he is trying his best as much as you are. Then he quips again to commend you for not letting the guilt bawl your eyes out. He is proud, rightfully so, because he is well aware of how much it took you to be that comfortable, how much chaos it took to be this tranquil, and most especially, of unlearning the tendency to be frustrated at something you couldn't control.

Slowly but surely, as weeks passed, you could ground yourself again in your safe space. That space solidifies when Erwin gives you a chaste peck as you wash the dishes. You halt to grab him by the collar, soap staining his clothes along the way, but he doesn't mind at all. After all, he has a more significant concern: you finally kissed him again passionately. After three weeks of holding it in, his lips are on you again; his tongue is savoring your warmth again.

He holds your cheeks tight and hums in arousal, "You sure have a way of surprising me."

"I'm surprised, too. Remember the first time this happened to us, and I couldn't kiss you for two months?"

"Are you sure you're okay now, though?"

You nodded, "Let's try to settle with kisses for now."

"Mhm-hm," he cups your cheeks and kisses your forehead. "Such a strong girl for me."

You're not the only one being strong here, though—that's what you affirmed when you woke up in the middle of the night and noticed Erwin breathing heavily.

His hands are clasped to yours, and you can hear him moan your name repeatedly. At first, you thought he was sick but quickly noticed the synchronized up and down movements marking the blanket. 

Erwin is touching himself.

You're not even hugging each other—it seems like he scooted you away from him before starting the act—all he settled for is holding your hand.

You hurry on top and engulf him in a kiss to inform him of your consciousness. Erwin squirms in surprise, but instead, you order, "Continue touching yourself, my love."

Erwin takes a while to process the situation, then shyly asks, "Are you sure?"

"Mhm-hm, please—" you whisper, then pepper his face with wet kisses. Lips then slide to his ear; you give it a smooth lick before begging, "Let me hear you."

The gesture sent a tremendous jolt over Erwin's body. You know his ears are pretty sensitive, and you only take advantage of it when you really want him to do something.

"Yes—hah—yes, love," he babbles, the jerking of his hand starts to produce a slick noise. Perhaps his pre-lubricated dick helped bring him a blissful release. You continue kissing him while on it; moans escape as you feel him messily biting your lower lip.

"You'd let me taste, wouldn't you?"

"D-do you—ah—do you want to—"

"I wouldn't ask if I don't."

As languid as ever, you slide your hands down below and join his hand in bobbing up and down his dick. He whimpers, and somehow, the sight of your composed, level-headed man whimpering helplessly underneath you exudes blissful shudders. Oh, to be loved by him. To be foolishly and utterly loved by someone like him.

"Just want—oh fuck—just want to make sure." Indeed he did because after your assurance, he grips a fistful of your hair and then guides you down to his protuberance. The gentleness of his hold says a lot about how your moment below him would go. The gentle touches are the least he could do to compensate for how hard he'd claim your mouth afterward. He couldn't control himself. Erwin, who has always been the epitome of control, could not embody such pride when faced with matters concerning your lovely mouth.

Your eyes widen, and tears build up on the tip of your eyes as soon as Erwin arches his back and spurts his cum deep down your throat. And even after he let it all out, he did not let go of your head. He trapped your mouth in his confines, ensuring you wouldn't waste a single drop because that's what you want. Erwin, honestly, would feel a bit shy if not for your persistence and enthusiasm. Anyone would think that pampering him like this, drinking all of him so lovingly, and more would be because you're under him, serving him with all you have.

But, as a matter of fact, Erwin is the one serving you. He likes everything you want to do, everything you want to explore. Hell, once you ask him for a child, he'd spend the whole night cumming inside you until you couldn't anymore and he's all spent and dry—messed up to his very core because that's what you want.

Erwin almost laughed at his thoughts; it was evident by the way he didn't let go of your mouth even after his dick softened. Instead, he bobbed your head up and down his limp cock, pumping every last of his fluid that might be left of him. You deserve it, after all. Earn your hard work. Swallow every drop. Have him by your mouth as earnestly as he would offer his life for you.

A month later, as if to reward him, you prepared a small gift.

"Come here, love," you speak from behind as soon as he enters the room, your back facing him.

Despite the bathrobe clad around your body, Erwin could notice the transparent cloth underneath. He had never seen this attire before. "You bought that?" he quips as he walks nearer, "That's quite a daring attire. Are you planning to get back at me for touching myself while you were sleeping?"

"Tsk, stop talking too much and sit in front of me," you glare, beckoning him to the soft cushion at the bedside.

Erwin senses your nervousness so he asks, "What's the matter?" but when he finally follows your command, his jaw almost drops. "Oh. Oh my word."

The anxiousness becomes even more apparent, quite unfitting for the promiscuous lingerie you were wearing, "Please tell me I don't look weird."

"I—" Erwin looks away with a chuckle. It wrapped your figure so, so well that Erwin couldn't find the words to express it. "Y-you're—"

"I am about to cry," you hitched in a panic, "I knew this was a bad idea!"

"No, no—" Erwin kneels to your level to clarify, only to no avail because he's still too awed to speak. However, with his eyes twinkling, you realize he might've loved it. A bit too much for your good, even. "You did this for me?"

You nodded, confidence slightly rising upon his enthrallment. "You seem so stressed lately so I figured to give you something pleasant to look at." 

"Well, I quickly forgot what that might be." Erwin's fingers slide to the bra strap, linger towards your chest, flick the nipple that can be seen through the material, then watch your reaction—how you close your eyes, bite your lips, and tighten your hand on his wrist to encourage him more. "How gorgeous, your makeup matches well with the garment."

"For you, yes—mhm—just for you."

"Yeah," he chuckles in between, "my lovely, lovely girl, all dolled up for me."

He holds onto your shoulders and pushes you down the bed, then hovers on top with a thrilled look. Apparently, your outfit accentuates more when you're lying on the satin sheets. Did the fashion designers really craft it the way it'd look so pleasing when plastered on the bed? 

His lips follow the traces of your neck, his favorite spot to nibble and mark, and he couldn't help but close his eyes at the lingering scent there. You, indeed, went all the way. The makeup, attire, the perfume. Oh, what did he do that made you prepare this? He must take note of it so he can do it again.

And so he gives you everything. Months of pent-up desire really did make him go all the way as if to reward you for doing the same. Noises fill the room and eventually reek of sex. Erwin didn't stop; he couldn't stop even if he wanted to take a break. The fashion designer must've crafted it the way it'd look so pleasing when the one wearing it looks so ruined from too much love. The lingerie ribbon eventually fell out, and your breasts went along with the bouncing of his cock going in and out, in and out, in and out, until you squirted all over his cock. Even so, he milked you dry. He kept thrusting over and over again, not bothered by his loud moans.

God, again and again, it's rare for Erwin Smith to lose his cool. If this stern man would be exposed as a sucker for his lovely girl, you could be used against him and he'd have no choice but to submit. It's that bad.

"I—ah—huh—" you babble, earning a husky chuckle from your man.

He cups your cheeks to ask why, a few drops of sweat dripping along the way, and oh, on everyday occurrences, you'd deem it disgusting, but tonight you want all of his tied to you. His sweat, his cum, his dick, his smile, his—

"Fuck," Erwin rasps, "you're clenching. Is this intentional, huh? Y'know I'm gonna cum? Want my cum inside?"

"Yes—fuck yes, yes, yes. Inside!"

That was the last straw of Erwin's control. He spoke of incoherent praises, unaware that it couldn't be understood anymore. When he raised your hips and brought your knees atop his shoulders, you huffed loudly and squirted again.

"D-don't pull out. K-keep—hah fuck, it's overstimulating—it inside," you cried. Even if it started to sting a bit, you did nothing but open your legs more and close your eyes to feel him.

"Mhm-hm, my love. Just a few more. Take a few more. You'll be a good lady for me and milk me dry, yeah?"

"I-I will!" you exclaimed, opening your legs wider. When you saw Erwin's eyes tightly closing and his mouth forming the shape of O, the next thing you felt was him spurting his cum inside you.

"Ah, hah, there you go. Fuck, take it—" Erwin thrusts, "fucking, hah—" he thrusts again, "fucking take it. God—" then thrusts for the last time until he drops his heavy body on top of you. You squeaked in surprise (and honestly, in slight pain), but Erwin just laughed and started nibbling again on his favorite spot on your neck.

You supposed the pillow talk is next, and perhaps after a few minutes, he'd be ready to go again—it's always been that way. However, just as you're surprisingly dolled up tonight, Erwin is surprisingly unconscious, too. His breathing is steady again, his heartbeat mellow. Even if you couldn't breathe properly due to his weight, you didn't bother removing yourself from his constraints. 

You giggled, combed his soft blonde hair, heard him unconsciously hum in delight at the sensation, and you drifted to sleep not long after.

TAGLIST: @frenchdyer @watyousayin @collinnmckinley @aeanya @xiaotopia @cadenza-damour @grimistheangerinmystares | STORY SUBSCRIPTION FORM

MORE OF SWEET SUBTLETIES SERIES HERE

[standfucker]

More Than Enough

Extremely belated birthday gift for @nekomacheercaptain, thanks for being a great friend these past few months! Hope it was worth the wait, thanks for your patience!

Characters: Rosinante

Reader: Cis Fem

Word Count: 11,898

CW: fluff, explicit N.SFW content, established relationship, lots of smooches, shy reader, chubby reader, lil bit of soft dom Rosi, body worship, praise, dirty talk, oral (fem receiving,) fingering, vaginal penetration, size difference, size kink, big insertion, belly bulge, slight bit of hurt/comfort, reader does not finish but has a great time so it’s all good

Summary: When Rosinante discovers that your birthday's coming up, he does what he can to make it special.

Ao3 Link

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

Rosinante’s call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts. You blink, now back in reality, and look his way. At this distance, you can see his concerned frown under the red paint, pointed opposite of the harlequin curves.

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine,” you reply quietly.

“You seem distracted.”

His eyes are soft. It’s not something you would ever see around the family. To the outside world, they are cold and aloof, all out of necessity. But the way he looks at you in private–it’s like he’s a completely different person.

All Rosinante had done was comment on the date, and you had gone quiet, a realization setting in that you didn’t know how to feel about. Knowing the stakes as you do, this long after he had divulged his secret to you, it seems trivial. Now that you’re both playing this deadly game of pretend under Doflamingo’s nose, what does it matter?

You play with the hem of your sleeve, thumb sliding across the worn threads for stimulation and comfort, a nervous habit. Rosi’s eyes settle on your busy fingers. He knows it means you’re agitated, you’re pretty sure. He’s frighteningly observant.

“It’s nothing, really,” you try to dismiss, hoping to avoid the conversation altogether.

Rosinante hesitates, unsure if he should pry. He hates making you uncomfortable, but you can tell he wants you to confide in him–he told you as much, after all, those many months ago when he revealed his voice.

“I’ve told you my secret. In exchange, you tell me yours, and we’ll call it even.”

Guilt stirs uncomfortably in your chest. Rosinante had long since earned your trust, hadn’t he? He would probably want to know.

“It’s just… It’s my birthday tomorrow,” you finally admit. “I completely forgot about it, to be honest, until just now when you mentioned the date.”

His reaction is as you feared–shock slowly morphing into excitement, his lips curling up to match the direction of the face paint. He starts to speak.

“We should do somethi–”

“No!” you cut him off, surprising you both. Then you cringe at your outburst, giving him an apologetic look. “Sorry! I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know. Birthdays can be a weird time for me. I don’t know that I want to celebrate.”

His face falls. “Oh.”

The disappointment in that little ‘oh’ reinforces the guilt. You try not to overthink it–you’re too tired from the mission Doflamingo assigned you two to let minor stresses pile up now. At least you and Rosinante had finished up early. There were still two more days until you were scheduled to meet the Numancia Flamingo, from which you would be sailing to the next island, only a day’s travel away. 

For now, you took temporary refuge in a recently-abandoned house on the outskirts of town. It meant that for the next 48 hours, neither you nor Rosinante had to pretend. He seemed aware of the shrinking span of time you had left, because he had been touchier since the mission ended, even for him.

“It’s just…” Rosi takes your hand, dwarfing it in his. His thumb sweeps over your knuckles, his go-to gesture when you’re anxious.  “I want to do something for you.”

“I knew you would,” you say, a small smile playing on your lips, because of course he would. He cares fiercely, as you've come to find out, for his loved ones–and somehow, somewhere along the line, you'd become one of them. It’s only natural he’d want to celebrate. And while you don’t know if you have the mental energy for an outing tomorrow, you wonder if you can make a compromise. Indulge him in indulging you.

“Spend time with me?” you suggest. “Just me and you staying in tomorrow, keeping each other company, doing absolutely nothing. That would be more than enough.”

That was what you needed. To relax for a day, to have no expectations, to give your nerves time to come down. Having Rosinante by your side for that seems like a pretty good birthday gift to you.

“You want to do nothing?” he questions, uncertain.

“Yep.” 

Uncertainty turns to thoughtfulness. You know he’s tired, too.

“...I suppose we have earned a break.”

Rosinante holds you close when you go to bed that night, one huge arm across your torso tucking you against his chest like you're a stuffed animal. Your hands come to rest on his arm. He’s solid and warm against your back, bringing a sense of safety you’d never really felt in your life before knowing him.

With privacy among the family nearly impossible to find, you soak in each other’s presence as much as you can in these rare opportunities. He kisses the top of your head before settling, and you squeeze his arm in response.

“I love you,” he says sleepily.

That has you twisting in place, rolling over to face him. Even in the dark, you can clearly see those soft eyes looking down at you fondly.

Why? A part of you wants to ask. But you don’t. There will be plenty of time for doubts once you’re back around his brother. Right now, it’s just you, Rosinante, and the delicate, wild thing that’s bloomed between you this past year. Candid, honest, and trusting. The ‘why’ doesn’t matter.

So you say, “I love you too,” and you look into those adoring eyes of his when you do, to let him know you mean it.

Even as tired as he is, Rosinante’s smile is bright and giddy, more like a schoolboy whose crush held his hand rather than a three-meter tall grown man. He bends down to kiss you, and you stretch to meet him, freeing your arms from between your bodies so you can hold his face to yours.

He's holding you almost too tightly as he falls asleep, but the pressure is soothing, and once he dozes off, his grip loosens. You both tend to move in your sleep, you more so than him, so you’re not surprised to no longer be in contact when you wake the next morning. But when you reach your arm out to the other side of the bed, seeking his warmth, you find that it’s empty.

You sit up, right in time to hear the front door open. On instinct, you get tense, battle-weary nerves anticipating a possible enemy. But then you hear a thump, followed by Rosinante’s yelp, and you know all is well.

As you’d expected, a single night’s sleep wasn’t enough to ease your tension after the stresses of the mission. You’re still tired as you stretch and rise, briefly debating on just going back to sleep but deciding you wouldn’t rest as well without Rosinante there anyway.

You find him in the kitchen. There’s a bag with crumpled take-out boxes on the table, likely smashed during his fall.

“Good morning,” Rosinante says merrily, rubbing a new sore spot on his head. “Happy birthday!”

Right. Your birthday. The momentary blank look on your face makes Rosi chuckle.

“Did you forget again?”

“Um… Maybe?” you say sheepishly, pulling out a chair to plop into.

“Well, I didn’t,” he says, his proud look turning into a slight cringe when he removes the crushed boxes from the bag. He slides one over to you. “Got us breakfast. Should be intact.”

The boxes have the logo of what must be a local diner. Inside is a stack of heart-shaped waffles. Thankfully, being flat, they survived the fall without being ruined. There’s little containers of butter and syrup inside with them, upturned but miraculously still closed.

“Oh, it smells so good!” Your mouth is already watering–restaurant food was always a welcome change from boat food. “Thank you, Corazon! I was so drained from this week, I didn’t even think about what we’d eat today.”

“Sure." He beams at your response, proud of himself again. “We can figure out lunch and dinner later.”

After breakfast, you check on the laundry you had hung up the day prior. Sweat, dirt, blood–not a trace of the mission remains on them. Washing the bloodstains out of clothing by yourself had always felt sinister, like you were covering up your crimes. Doing it next to Rosinante, for some reason, was different. With him, it felt more like a cleansing ritual–sitting side by side, working to return your attire, and by extension, yourselves, to a state of normalcy. Afraid he would get the stain remover into his eyes somehow, you had forcibly taken over for him. After some initial protesting, he acquiesced, sitting you in his lap as you worked, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist.

Everything is dry except for Rosinante’s black feather coat, the thick material still damp to the touch. There are spots along the shoulders where the feathers are scratchy and stiff from having been singed, but the rest is soft. You run your hand over it, then lean in to sniff the garment without really thinking about it. Even having been washed, it still smells like him, a comforting mix of his natural scent and nicotine.

“Is it dry?”

Rosinante’s voice behind you makes you jerk away from the coat, face flushing warm. His goofy smile and the dusting of pink on his cheeks tells you that you’ve been caught.

“N-No, it’s not,” you say quickly. “Might be a while before it is, so try not to get that one dirty again soon…”

Rosinante’s smile widens, playful. “I guess that detergent smells pretty good, doesn’t it?”

The detergent you had on hand last night was unscented. He’s messing with you. 

“Cora…” The heat creeps further up your cheeks.

“All sweet and floral,” he continues.

“Cora.”

“Or is it the cigarette smell you like?”

“Rosinante!” you say firmly.

He rubs the back of his neck, grinning apologetically. “Sorry, love. I’m done.” 

The teasing is relatively new, something he didn’t start doing until you became fully comfortable with each other. You’re not used to it yet. It’s a bit frustrating how easily it gets to you, but you also know that on the rare moments you get the nerve to tease him back, he falls apart worse than you do.

Rosinante starts heading your way, but hesitates at the clotheslines strung across the yard. They’re at chest height to him, perfect to get tangled up in. You shake your head as you take down the last of the dry garments. At least he’s self-aware. (If only it was enough to prevent accidents.) You approach him so he doesn’t have to take the risk, and he holds his arms out, offering to take the clothes off your hands.

Rosinante's blushing when you set the bundle in his arms, and he doesn’t move right away, looking down at you with a bashful grin.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I like when you call me Rosinante.”

It’s not the first time he’s told you that, but you still get a bit flustered, averting your eyes like you haven’t slept together before. The last time he said that, he added, “but it can’t become habit,” concerned that it would potentially give you two away if it slipped out in front of the family.

This time, he must not be worrying about it, because he adds in a lower voice, “I like ‘Rosi’ even better.”

That makes you heat right back up again, and you fidget in place. “I thought you said you were done,” you mutter, poorly suppressing a smile. 

“Ah, that’s right! I’m sorry. You’re just so cute, it’s hard to help.”

You shove your face into the pile of clothes he’s holding to hide the furious blush that must be tinting your skin, muffling your whine. “Rosi…”

“There it is.” He leans over and kisses the back of your head. “Mwah~! Come on, let’s go inside.”

Rosinante insists on folding the laundry, since you did most of the washing. He sits down to work, and you drape yourself against his back, your arms hanging over his shoulders and your face buried into his neck. He’s so tall compared to you that you have to be standing up to do so.

“Aren’t you tired, baby? You don’t wanna sit?” he asks.

“I’m good here,” you mumble, more than content to be close. 

Taking advantage of the fact that your heads are currently level for once, Rosinante turns his head to kiss you, first on your nose, then your cheek, working his way down with soft pecks. Your giggle is cut off when he reaches your lips, his eyes fluttering closed. Responding eagerly, you angle your head for better access, making him hum in satisfaction.

“Don’t let me distract you, Rosi,” you whisper.

“How can I not be when you’re right here?” he whispers back. “Radiant as a star, with none of the family around to disturb your light.”

Given your eye bags and messy hair, you’re not sure where he’s getting ‘radiant,’ but at the same time, you understand–you’ve seen him dirtied, bloodied, and exhausted and still especially found him attractive. But you're not used to such compliments, no matter how often he gives them. The flattery is always overwhelming, because no one's really spoken to you that way before him.

At your doubtful look, Rosinante opens his mouth to add something. You know it's going to be more praise, and you're already blushing, so you shut him up with a kiss, small hands holding his face to pull him right back in.

At some point while he’s folding clothes, you’re suddenly hit by the domesticity of it. In another life, this could be your reality: Mundane. No stakes. No risking your life. Just the day-to-day upkeep that you would share, together. Maybe it’s still possible someday. Maybe, if you’re lucky, this could be your future. You hold him a little tighter at the thought, and his sigh of contentment is like warmth in sound form, melting away doubts and worries.

All that the prior house occupants had left behind in the pantry are an unopened jar of coconut oil, a tin of stale crackers, and some half-empty spice containers, so despite your initial plan to stay in, the two of you decide to go into town for lunch. The weather’s nice for an outing anyway, sunny and temperate with a light breeze. You hold hands as you walk and discuss your plans, settling on getting lunch from a restaurant and then buying some groceries to make dinner yourselves. 

You’ve finished with lunch and are walking to the market when a storefront catches your eye, the rows of transponder snails sitting by the window standing out. They’re arranged in a neat display, though their purpose isn’t immediately obvious, as it doesn’t look like a typical snail-breeding operation. Rosinante encourages your curiosity, and the both of you duck into the store to see what’s going on. The clerk is happy to explain–the snails are actually visual transponder snails available to rent, each one having memorized three films they can project. It’s your first time seeing such a service, and you can’t help but be impressed as you browse the options, each snail resting next to a card with its films listed.

“Three entire films, huh?” you muse, picking up one of the snails and scratching along its shell until it purrs. “That’s pretty impressive. Aren’t you neat, you cute little thing?”

The snail withdraws slightly into its shell, eyestalks still poking out, but it won’t look at you, which makes you giggle. “Aww, Cora, I think it’s shy.”

Rosinante glances at the store clerk, currently a ways away but still within earshot, and then snaps his fingers, creating a small bubble of silence around the two of you. At this point, you recognize the ability when it manifests, though you don’t know why he chose to use it right then, especially so close to a civilian.

“It reminds me of someone,” Rosinante says cheekily, clownish grin stretching when you predictably get flustered. 

So he didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the clerk, but still felt that teasing you was necessary enough to risk being seen using his power? Before you can come up with a clever retort or admonishment, however, he drops the bubble, forcing you to keep it to yourself lest you sound like a crazy person. You try to communicate your disapproval with a pointed look, which promptly fails on account of your blush and only serves to make him chuckle.

After you pick out a snail and continue on your way to the market, you’ve calmed down enough that your stern expression actually comes off as stern.

“I can’t believe you did that,” you chide, “taking such a risk just for the sake of teasing me. Really, Corazon…”

“Well, I won’t be able to once we meet up with the family,” he says casually, “I’m trying to get it all out of my system while I can.”

“Is that even possible for you?” you joke as you side-eye him, knowing full well that Rosinante can be a bit… unhinged, at times.

That harlequin grin returns. “Maybe not, but I don’t think you mind nearly as much as you act like you do.”

There was that keen observation of his again. Sometimes you could be apprehensive over just how well he knew you. But other times, on those long nights where you were stuck deep in your own head, and he would just know without you saying a thing, and he would come to your side and wordlessly hold you close–those times reminded you that this was what trust was supposed to be like. Even if a small, dark part of you kept waiting to be taken advantage of, it never happened.

“Even so,” Rosinante adds, “if it’s too much, you know, just say the word. I’ll stop.”

A sharp swell of gratitude in you threatens to form tears, and you look away from him, taking a deep breath to hold it in. What did you do to deserve him? To show you’re not upset, you squeeze his hand, but he still picks up on your distress, lightly returning the pressure.

“Y/n?” he questions.

“I’m okay.” You compose yourself with another breath and smile up at him. “I love you, Rosi. That’s all.”

Rosinante’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that matches the hearts on his shirt. Then, breaking out into a delighted grin, he picks you right off of the ground in a tight hug. You immediately wrap your arms and legs around him in turn, both of you giggling.

“As hard as the mission was,” you say, “I’m glad it was just us two. I’m glad I don’t have to spend my birthday with anyone else.”

“Me too.” Rosinante kisses your cheek, and you push him away half-heartedly.

“You’ll smear your paint again.”

“So what?”

“We’re trying not to stand out, remember?”

His huffy pout is so childish it makes you giggle again. 

“You’re right…”

After you return to the house and put the groceries away, you spend the next hour or so unwinding from the trip. There’s a bookshelf in the living room with a variety of paperbacks, so you take advantage, each picking out one that looks interesting. Rosinante manages to knock the entire bookshelf over somehow, getting pelted by a small avalanche of books. Once you help put them away, the two of you curl up against each other to read on the rather large couch in the living room, big enough to hold even his bulk. The exhaustion from the previous week still lingers, as you both end up falling asleep, you leaning on his broad chest and soothed by the lullaby drumming of his heartbeat.

When you wake up next, you finally feel refreshed. Coming back to consciousness to the feel of his large body against yours is a soul-deep comfort, one you wish you could enjoy more often. If only you didn’t have to hide your relationship… You idly trace formless shapes on his chest, mulling the thought over like you have hundreds of times before, and he begins to stir.

The slight movement draws your attention. Rosinante had passed out hard enough to drool a bit in his sleep, and as you reach up to wipe it from his chin, he grabs your wrist, pulling your fingers to his lips to kiss them sleepily.

“Rest well?” you ask, smiling.

“Mm. Always do, when I’m with you,” he responds, kissing your palm next.

You sigh. “Cora…”

“Something on your mind?” He lowers your hand so he can fix his marigold eyes on yours, searching and curious.

You hesitate, mustering up the courage to share your thoughts. “I was just thinking… If we revealed to Doffy that we’re seeing each other, maybe we could be close more often. Share quarters instead of sneaking around. We could have this every night…”

Rosinante sits up, shifting you to sit onto his lap. He’s pensive, frowning slightly, the look alone making anxious nerves unsettle your stomach. As always, though, he notices, rubbing soothing circles on your lower back to show he’s not mad.

“I have thought about that,” he says after a minute, “but I want to save that information.”

“Save it?”

“As my brother gains momentum, the stakes only continue to rise, as do the risks we take. If we are ever out doing something conspiratorial against him, and, god forbid, he catches wind of it… I want to be able to use our relationship as an alibi. So I can tell him that we were just trying to hide that we’re dating.“

So that was his plan. Moments like these were a sobering reminder of his true nature–ever the cautious spy, strategically manipulating any and all information available to him. You imagine Doflamingo’s response to hearing that. After years spent in his service, it’s not difficult–you can picture his demonic grin clearly in your mind, and how it would widen upon the revelation. ‘A relationship? Why would you hide such a thing from me, dear brother?’

“He’d question why you went to lengths to hide that.”

“But he knows you,” Rosinante says, wiping the drool from his chin with the back of his hand. “He knows you’re shy, and he’s still under the impression I’m reserved. It might be enough to convince him. On the off chance that it could save us…”

You nod, if a bit reluctantly. “I understand.”

His smile is wistful, at first, before he puts on a more confident front, bending over to press his forehead to yours. “I’ll find ways to be close to you, Y/n. No matter what. Okay?”

“Okay.” You cup his face, mindful not to smear the paint, and he wraps his arms around your back. You both stay like that for a while, like you can combat an uncertain future by figuratively and literally holding onto each other. And maybe it’s just because you’re head-over-heels for him, but sometimes, his embrace feels a lot like hope.

You make dinner for the both of you, outright refusing to let him help, knowing no good can come of him being around open flames or knives. After eating, you set up the video transponder snail, settling on the couch to watch the films. By then, Rosinante’s coat has fully dried, and he lets you curl up in it, more like a massive blanket in comparison to your body. He must get a kick out of seeing you practically drowning in the fabric, because he can’t stop giggling to himself as he tucks it around you.

Having not been familiar with most of the films advertised at the store, you had picked out the snail at random. The first film turns out to be enjoyable, a lighthearted but thrilling espionage flick that Rosinante can’t resist making comments on.

“That’s not how that works…”

“It’s just pretend, Rosi.”

“Still-!”

The both of you are lying down by the time the second film starts, your back to his chest, his hand resting on your hip. You’re not really paying this film much attention, focused more on the soft joys of the present: his scent surrounding you, the heat of his body that you can feel even through the coat, the sense of safety you get from being in proximity.

Rosinante must not be paying attention to the film, either, because after a while, he noses into your hair and breathes in deep. A moment later, his lips press to the back of your neck.

“Mm…” You shift a bit. “Rosi?”

“I know you said you don’t want to celebrate your birthday, but…” He doesn’t pull away from your neck to speak, and you can’t tell if the goosebumps that result come from the tickling of his lips on your skin or his deep baritone in your ear. “Can I make you feel good?”

A pulse of excitement runs through you at the husky intent in his voice, but it’s quickly tempered by doubt. It’s not like you haven’t done it before, but you’re self-conscious regardless, since…

“You know I won’t be able to finish,” you remind him. 

It kills you that because of your issue, Rosinante can’t even do that much for you. He’s well acquainted with your struggle by now, and while it’s never stopped him from seeking this type of closeness, you still feel guilty. But it’s like he can sense your shame, because he kisses the back of your neck again as if to soothe your worries.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “So long as you enjoy yourself.”

That swell of gratitude returns in full force, rising in your chest along with such a strong surge of love that it almost hurts. You roll over to face him. He’s already blushing from the proposition, and you feel the heat start to crawl up your own cheeks.

“I love you so much,” you confess. “Yes, Rosi, you can. I… I want it. I want you…”

That giddy schoolboy grin returns for a moment, and then it changes, becoming something far more subdued and adult, his eyes half-lidding as he cradles your face in both hands.

“Then you’ll have me.”

Rosinante kisses you softly at first, pacing himself like he’s committing the feeling to memory. Then you grab onto the open collar of his shirt, and the tug of fabric triggers something in him, arms wrapping around you as he brings a heat that wasn’t present in any of the sweet kisses throughout the day. You can sense the change, his intent seeming to flow directly into your veins from his mouth like venom, burning you up in a good way. He’s measured, even restrained when he swipes his tongue along the seam of your mouth, only for his breath to hitch when you reciprocate, you parting your lips to curl your smaller tongue around his. His resulting moan comes from deep in his gut, stirring heat in yours.

Without breaking the kiss, he lets go of your face in order to peel his coat off of you, tossing it out of the way and swallowing your little noise of protest before his hands are right back on you, pulling you even closer. You reach up to grab the tails of his hat, eagerly pressing your body against his as you return everything he gives you.

Breaking for air lets him get a good look at your face, flushed and panting, and he curses at the sight of his face paint smeared across your swollen lips.

“Fuck, Y/n… Seeing my paint all messy on you–it does things to me,” he admits breathlessly, pupils blown wide.

“I could say the same,” you smile, as his is smudged just as badly. It would look ridiculous if it wasn’t so hot.

Rosinante kisses you again, open-mouthed and passionate. Given that he’s larger in every way, all parts of him proportionate to his height, even his tongue is that much bigger, filling up your mouth when he thrusts it past your lips. You moan around his tongue, and again when his large hands start to roam your body, greedily feeling you up. The tails of his hat aren’t sturdy enough for your liking, so you pull it off his head and bury your fingers directly into his hair, gripping the blond locks tightly enough to make him groan into your mouth. He starts to kiss and nibble along your jaw, muttering huskily in between each one.

“Could smear it elsewhere,” kiss, “could smear it all over you,” nip, “d’you want that, baby girl?”

“Ah! Rosi, y-yes! Please!”

His low chuckle sends a spike of heat between your legs, another one following when he rolls you onto your back, hovering over your form. “There’s my good girl.”

You whimper at the praise as Rosinante kisses his way down your neck, gliding his hands up and down your sides before hooking them under the hem of your shirt. He peels it up with reverence, like he’s unwrapping a long-anticipated gift, slow and methodical. You raise your arms to help him remove it, then undo the clasp of your bra yourself, figuring he’d only struggle with his large fingers. You let him remove your bra the rest of the way, too, knowing he enjoys disrobing you, though feeling a wave of embarrassment at how he sucks in a breath once your breasts are exposed.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, awestruck, and you can’t help but cover your face. He always acts like he’s never seen you naked before.

Rosinante pulls your hands away, kisses you with tongue, then replaces your hands where they were, making you giggle. Then he presses his face between your breasts with a muffled sigh, enjoying the feel of your body for a moment before he shifts himself lower, mouth leaving a stripe of red down your front until his head rests on your stomach. His fingers sink into the doughy flesh of your hips, and you tense only for a moment before relaxing.

“You okay, baby?” he checks in.

“Mhm,” you assure him, “feels good.”

By now, you were used to how Rosinante reacted to your body, but the first time you had been intimate, you froze up at his touches.

“It doesn’t bother you?” you had asked him as he kissed your hip, trailing his lips along a stretch mark.

“Hm?” His eyes, glassy with lust, flicked up to meet yours, making you shiver. “Does what?”

“My, um…” Unable to say it, you grabbed your stomach to illustrate your point.

Rosinante followed your gaze down to your hands. There was a beat where he just blinked, unsure of what you meant, before his eyes widened with realization. Then he blushed even deeper. Tentatively, his hands came to rest over yours on your stomach, and then he gently pulled them away so he could lay his head there instead. 

“Silly girl…”

The way he said it, like he was in on something you weren’t, went straight between your legs. He let go of your hands so he could lecherously squeeze at your thighs again.

“You have no idea…” he whispered, and kissed your stomach with the same veneration of one kissing the foot of a revered statue. “...No idea what you do to me.”

Finding out he liked it–once you got over the initial shyness–had been a major confidence booster, even if it veered on overwhelming at times. Rosinante’s size may have made you weak-kneed if you dwelled on it too much, and his hidden gentleness had its draw, of course, but the sexiest thing about him was just how into you he was.

His lips press to your stomach the same way they did that first time together, and thanks to the sheer size of him, the purr in his throat sounds more like a growl.

“You’re so soft, Y/n…” His tongue dips out to taste your skin.

“Ah!” You squirm. “Rosi-!”

Rosinante’s grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place. “Can’t get enough…” He licks his way to the top of your hip, where he starts sucking a bruise that has you whimpering. His hands travel lower to wrap around your thighs, and then, without warning, he suddenly drags you further beneath him, so his head is level with your neck, handling you like the tiny thing you are in comparison. You gasp at how easy it is for him, and again, breathier, when his lips touch your shoulder.

He’s gotten bolder in bed. You would have never imagined it from how cautious he was your first few times together, but Rosinante was keen. This long into your relationship, he’d zeroed in on what you liked–not that you made it all that difficult, reacting rather strongly whenever he manhandled you a little. Sure enough, between that and his earlier kisses, you already feel yourself growing slick.

“Soft,” he repeats, kissing your skin. “Sweet.” His mouth skims along your shoulder until he’s at the curve of your neck. “Like something to be eaten…” He bites into the tender flesh, drawing a moan from you.

“Rosi,” you whine, a little gasp escaping when he starts sucking on the spot. “Mm-! Please! D-Don’t tease me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he mutters, then promptly contradicts his words with another gentle bite.

“Rosi!”

“Sorry, baby girl… Hard to help when it makes you sound like that.” He kisses your neck in apology. “I’ll take care of you, promise...”

True to his word, Rosinante pushes you back up the couch so he’s positioned over your hips this time. The removal of your pants and underwear is treated with the same careful devotion that he did your shirt, savoring the act almost as much as what will follow. He doesn’t hesitate once you’re fully nude, immediately kissing your mons despite the soft curls of hair, then kissing your outer lips, groaning with heady anticipation.

“Spread your legs for me,” he directs, the command making you throb. There's something immensely appealing about knowing he could easily do it himself, but having you do as he says anyway. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth when you comply, entranced by the display. “Oh, good girl, so pretty. I’m so lucky…”

Before you have a chance to react shyly to that, he dips his head and licks a broad stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit, and your back arches at the electric contact, a small cry slipping out.

“So wet for me,” Rosinante moans. “Tell me if you need to stop, okay?”

With that, he dives back in, warming you up with slow, persistent licks, large tongue spread flat against your entire slit. Only a few seconds in and you’re already whimpering and squirming, prompting him to hook his muscular arms around your thighs to hold you still. The strength in his grip is almost as intoxicating as his enthusiasm, all the shrewd composure he’s forced to uphold for his mission gone, not even an afterthought when presented with the opportunity to indulge himself. He’s like a different person when he’s between your legs, usual modesty replaced by something carnal and hungry.

Rosinante eats you out like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance, shameless and thorough, deftly weaving his tongue between the folds of your inner lips before suckling on them. He gives quick, toying flicks of his tongue along your entrance, teasing the idea but not yet penetrating, and you can’t stop yourself from thrusting slightly into his mouth, which makes him tighten his grip on you.

“Oh-! Oh! Rosi!” you whine, unable to escape the blissful onslaught, fingers digging uselessly at the couch.

He’s noisy about it, too, not just because of the wet, messy slurping, but because he won’t stop moaning against your cunt, like he’s on another plane of being. While he claimed to be doing this for you, you suspect, even despite how incredible it feels, that he’s the one getting more out of this. He doesn’t let up for a single moment. You’re not sure how he’s breathing.

From the very start of your sexual relationship, Rosinante has always had a natural aptitude for giving head, and he’s only gotten better with time. He reads your body effortlessly, attentive nature serving him well for the task, knowing when to be consistent and when to switch it up. He’ll lick in one direction for a while, then, right before you become used to it to the point of the pleasure diminishing, he’ll change direction, interspersing with a new sensation that has your toes curling.

Once he’s decided you’re warmed up enough, he starts being more precise, using the tip of his tongue for more pinpoint stimulation in between the steady, rhythmic licks. Then he licks a long stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit again, except this time, he finishes by circling around your engorged clit. You arch deeper, if possible, as you cry out, burying your fingers in his hair and tugging hard, and he moans even louder. There’s a brief pause where he takes a breath–more of a gasp of your name, really–and then he’s buried his face between your legs again, focusing his attention on your clit, flicking and lapping his tongue at it like it’s his goal to get you to pull his hair out. Your noises, your writhing, the slight pain of your grip on his hair, all of it drives Rosinante mad, self-control slipping as he starts to buck his hips into the couch now and then while he goes down on you.

Right as the attention to your clit becomes too much, he snakes his tongue down and finally penetrates you, licking and undulating along your walls. Thrusting as deep as he can go, he curls his tongue to collect your slick at the source before drawing it back into his mouth to swallow it down, groaning depravedly at the taste. He never slows down, either, tongue-fucking you with a drive bordering on obsessive.

You’re almost as noisy as Rosinante is, now, hopeless to stop each shaky little whimper and moan of his name that he so expertly coaxes out of you. With his relentless pace and excellent attention to detail, it’s only a matter of time before it all becomes overstimulating.

“Rosi,” you gasp, tapping his shoulder. “Rosi, it’s too much.”

He looks a complete mess when he lifts his head, hair disheveled, mouth and chin shiny with slick and drool, almost no face paint left on him, likely all smeared on your vulva–you’ll definitely need a shower later. With the color and thickness of his hair, his reluctant look reminds you somewhat of a golden retriever that’s been called by its owner to leave the dog park. 

“Just a little more?” he asks with an innocence that has no place being there after how he just ate you out.

You giggle, both at that and because this was supposed to be about you, but you’re flattered that he can’t help himself when it comes to your body. “Give me a minute to recover, first. Then you can keep going. But slow down a bit when you do, okay?”

He rests his head on your thigh. “Whatever you need, baby girl. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

You lay your head back, catching your breath as you come down. Rosinante busies himself with marking up your inner thighs in the meantime, nibbling and sucking one bruise after another while you stroke his hair appreciatively. Once your nerves have settled, you give him the okay, and he wastes no time getting back to work.

Rosinante adjusts his hold on your thighs and drags your body closer, grinding your cunt right against the flat of his tongue as your fingers find their way into his hair again. He doesn’t stop you from rolling your hips into him, encouraging it with a gratified moan. Pleasure builds back up gradually, only to spike too high when he turns his attention to your clit again.

“Slow, Rosi,” you remind him, and he grunts an affirmative, easing up significantly.

One of his arms unhooks from your thigh, large hand squeezing your rear before he slips it between your bodies. As promised, he moves slowly when he penetrates you with a thick finger, but you still arch from the contact–his fingers are so much bigger than yours, and taking his time means the sensation is drawn out that much longer.

“Oh!” Your gasp is only pleasured, but he checks in anyway.

“This okay?”

“Yesss,” you moan, making him chuckle.

Mindful of your sensitivity, Rosinante pumps his finger at a leisurely, unhurried pace, relishing in each of your twitches and cries.

“What a good girl you are, Y/n,” he praises, then licks along the side of your clit, just once. “Letting me do this to you behind closed doors…” His tongue sweeps over your nub again. “You’re sweet all over, aren’t you, baby?”

He keeps from overstimulating you by breaking up each pass of his tongue with praise, until you don’t know if it’s his mouth or his words that’s making your breath catch in your throat.

“Your moans are so cute.”

“I love how you try to hold back…”

“You don’t need to, Y/n.”

“After all… This is all for me.”

“All mine to see, to hear, to taste. My girl...”

Rosinante curls his finger, and you cry his name. He’s gentle but insistent, sparking little pulses of pleasure through your core. It doesn’t build up much, but you ride it as long as you can, until your enjoyment starts to wane and there’s more friction than you’d like.

“Rosi, I–I need a break,” you tap his shoulder in signal, and he withdraws from you.

“You lasted longer that time,” Rosinante notes, then grabs your thigh and drags you underneath him so he’s at eye level with you again. Despite how he moves you as he pleases, he looks at you like you’re an angel gracing the earth. “You taste so damn good… Want me to show you?” He sticks out his tongue devilishly.

You consent by reaching for his face, pulling him in for a messy kiss that tastes of your slick. He probes his tongue deep, making sure to fill your mouth with the slippery tang. You moan softly in approval, and the thought that you like it turns him on so much he’s bucking slightly again in response. If it wasn’t for the significant height difference, he’d be grinding against you, but with your heads currently level, his hips are below your own.

Rosinante growls into your mouth, hands roaming your body to grab and squeeze as he likes. You can feel the rumble of it in your chest, and along with the dizzying taste of your slick and his covetous groping, you find yourself craving even more of him, like the depth of his need has rubbed off on you. Your hand trails down, reaching for his pants, but alas, he’s too damn tall for you to get any further than his abs. He picks up on it, though.

“You want my cock?” Rosinante whispers huskily, thrusting into the couch again.

“Yes, yes, please, Rosi!” you beg, and he grins at your desperation.

“I thought you needed a break.”

“Don’t be mean! It’s my birthday…” A cheap card to pull, maybe, but you’ll say anything at this point to get what you want.

Rosinante chuckles and kisses you, gently biting your lower lip. “Think it’ll fit this time?”

Even after all of his prior attention, the words pool fresh heat between your legs, an anticipatory shudder running up your spine. “Let’s try?” you ask. “Pretty please?”

“Like I could say no to you.” He kisses you again, groaning when you grind your crotch against his stomach. “Just don’t push yourself if it hurts.”

Rosinante’s eyes glaze over as he watches you hastily unbutton his shirt, taken at your impatience and at how avidly you run your hands down the soft fuzz of his chest once it’s exposed. He’s already undone the button of his pants earlier for some relief from the tightness, and there’s a wet spot on the fabric you don’t miss. He takes enough mercy on you to remove his own bottoms quickly, sliding both off in one motion. His cock springs against his stomach, fully hard and leaking, leaving a smear of precum on his abdomen. Like the rest of him, it’s proportionate to his size, far bigger than anything someone your height was probably meant to take. The length and girth would be more intimidating if it was attached to anyone else, but Rosinante was always mindful of your limits, taking the utmost care anytime you attempted penetration. Still, you can only fight the confines of anatomy so much, and as such, there’s only been a few times that you’ve been able to take him, all of which involved the assistance of lubricant.

Rosinante sits up with his back against the couch, and you eagerly straddle him, scooting forward until your clit’s pressed against the base of his twitching cock. The tip reaches past your navel, promising an incredible stretch if you can manage to fit him.

“Take it nice and slow, okay? Don’t force yourself,” he says as he rests his hands on your hips, helping you position yourself over him. He gasps at your touch when you reach to line him up with your entrance, your fingers not meeting even around the head of his dick.

His energy has changed, all earlier lust now controlled under a tight leash, restrained but brimming beneath the surface. You can feel it in the twitch of his fingers on your hips, and in his shaky breathing as he watches you lower yourself onto him. You both let out a breath when the blunt head of him presses against you. The delicate walls of your entrance are gradually spread wider and wider, stretching to accommodate the intrusion. There’s a dull tinge of pain, one that’s not concerning enough to stop you yet. But despite how wet you are from earlier, it’s still not enough to compensate for his girth, and you find yourself unable to get even the head of his cock fully inside without the friction becoming too painful.

Frustration pushes you to try again. You want him badly, you want to be close in this way, you’ve done it before–you know it’s possible. The resulting pain of your attempt shows in your grimace, making Rosi halt your progress with a firm hold on your hips.

“Baby, stop,” he says, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. “It’s not worth it if it hurts you.”

“I’m so close,” you whine. “I know I can do it.”

“You sure?” His thumb strokes your temple. “Listen to your body, Y/n. If it’s too much, there’s no shame in calling it off for today. We can try again next time.”

You make one more valiant attempt with no luck. Since you’ve taken him before, you have an idea of what to expect when it goes right, and this does not feel like one of those times. It just wasn’t going to happen without lube. Sighing, you dismount, trying not to feel too disappointed. Finishing him with your mouth is a fun option, too, but you were looking forward to riding him…

Then you remember something.

“Wait,” your eyes widen in realization, “the coconut oil.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head cutely.

“There was some left behind in the pantry, remember? I’m pretty sure that’s body-safe…”

Rosinante considers it, then shakes his head. “It’s probably contaminated, or expired.”

“I think it’s still sealed.”

“Is it?” He blinks for a moment, like he can’t believe the luck. Then he jumps to his feet with a hastiness that betrays his excitement, only to slip on nothing and fall hard on his ass. Undeterred, he hops right back to his feet, but is stopped by you grabbing his wrist.

“Nuh-uh, you stay here. I’ll get it,” you assert, picturing him retrieving the jar only to wipe out and let it shatter onto the floor. If that happened you might actually cry.

“I understand,” Rosinante says. You meet each other’s eye and immediately know you’re picturing the same thing, making you both break into giggles. Rosinante pulls you in for a kiss before plopping back down onto the couch, his dick bobbing enticingly from the action. “You gonna stare or you gonna hurry it up, then?”

Caught, you can only flash him a playful grin before you dart into the kitchen. (Wandering through someone else’s home nude always feels a bit awkward, but knowing it’s been abandoned helps ease the discomfort somewhat.) The coconut oil is unrefined, thankfully. Bringing it back to the couch, you scan the label to make sure it’s still in date. The lid is stuck tightly enough to prove it’s still sealed, resisting your attempts to open it until Rosinante twists it off in one easy motion that has you staring at his flexing forearms. He sniffs the contents before offering it to you to inspect. It smells light and faintly sweet, and the pure white color along with the smooth consistency reassures you that it’s safe.

You straddle Rosinante again. He’s so broad your legs don’t reach the couch when you do, but his muscular thighs are sturdy enough that it doesn’t matter. He bites back a whine when you start applying the coconut oil, bucking into your hands.

“Oh, shit. Your hands are so warm,” he moans.

“I’m even warmer on the inside,” you joke.

His chuckle breaks into a gasp when your hand passes over the head of his cock. You keep eye contact while you work, reveling in the flushed, needy way he watches you, this giant of a man now putty in your hands.

“You need–mm, fuck–you need some, too,” he pants, dipping two fingers into the jar and prompting you to raise your hips. Slick with oil, both of his thick fingers slip inside you without resistance, causing you to grab his forearm for stability as pleasure buzzes through you like static. He fingers the oil in deep, eyes half-lidding as you grind into his palm. “There you go…”

While Rosinante seems content to watch you fuck yourself on his hand, you have no intention of getting this messy only to not go all the way.

“I’m ready, I’m ready, come on,” you insist, and he curls his fingers teasingly before he withdraws them just to hear you moan. He wipes the excess oil on his hips before grabbing hold of yours, helping you position yourself again.

“Take it slow,” he says softly, watching your face for signs of pain.

The lube makes a world of difference, eliminating that threshold of friction that stopped you before. Holding your breath seems involuntary, an instinctive response to the feeling of your walls gloving the broad head of his dick. The stretch seems endless as you gradually lower yourself, slick flesh sliding past with little resistance until you’re spread impossibly wide around the first few inches. Rosinante reminds you to breathe through gritted teeth, his strained expression telling you just how good it feels. You don’t need the added motivation, plenty resolved to keep going for the euphoric stretch alone, but knowing it’s just as good for him only makes it better. A helpless little whimper falls out as you take a few more inches, holding onto his forearms for support. He’s thicker toward the tip, so once you conquer the first half, the rest is a matter of patience rather than struggle.

“Gods, Rosi,” you breathe, legs trembling as you work your hips in little up-and-down motions to open yourself further. “You’re so big. So big...”

Rosinante moans, head falling back on the couch. “Oh, fuck. Say it again.”

“You’re so big, Rosi!” Your eyes roll back as you sink another inch, his girth stretching you to your very limit until, finally, he’s more or less bottomed out. There are a few inches of him still left out, beyond what you can physically fit, but the fact that you can manage to take the majority of him at all is an amazing feat on its own.

You stay still for a moment, basking in the bliss of being filled near to bursting, the taught stretch of your walls shooting hot pulses of sensation through your pelvic floor without him moving. Even the slight edge pain feels incredible, cutting through the pleasure and keeping you grounded and aware of everything you’re feeling.

“You are warm,” Rosinante says, and even with him essentially in your guts, you can’t help but giggle. He shifts just slightly, but the slick movement inside you has you gasping and clenching down hard, making him groan and tighten his grip on your hips. He bends down to press his forehead against yours, lust morphing his expression into being both broken and ravenous as he looks into your eyes.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands breathily, almost against your lips.

“It feels so good!” you moan without shame. “Rosi, it feels so good.”

“There’s my girl.” He splays his fingers over your abdomen, feeling the distinct bulge of himself through the flesh with a pleased hiss. “You look so damn good like this. Love the sight of you stuffed full of my cock.”

You clench at the words and rock your hips forward, making you both moan in tandem, and again when you start steadily moving up and down his length. His hands on your hips keep you stable, supporting but not guiding your movements, letting you go at your own pace while he mutters filth in your ear.

“Can’t believe you took all of me… What a greedy little cunt you have, Y/n. Such a good girl, opening up for me…”

Rosinante kisses you roughly, drawing messy stripes on your tongue while you fuck yourself on his cock. You try to pay it back once he pulls away, praises spilling from your lips when you have enough presence of mind to do something other than whimper. But where Rosinante can dish it out, it seems he cannot not take it, because after only a few enamored ravings of how big he is and how good he feels, he’s suddenly stuffing two fingers in your mouth to silence you.

“If you keep talking like that, I’ll cum too soon,” he rasps, but it immediately backfires when you start sucking on his fingers, making him twitch and curse. “Fuck! Little demoness, you like that too?”

He’s plugging your mouth with the fingers that were inside you earlier, and maybe it’s just because of the sex high, but the lingering taste of yourself alongside the sweetness of the coconut oil combines into something incredible. You let him know with a moan, sliding the tip of your tongue between and around his fingers as he presses down on the back of it.

Your body’s more adjusted to him now, letting you ride him harder and faster. His gaze flicks between your fucked-out expression, a little drool trailing from the corner of your lips, to the point where your bodies meet, watching himself disappear in your heat. After the rigors of the mission, you can’t maintain the pace for very long, tiring earlier than you normally would–unfortunately, your stamina can’t keep up with your need, but Rosinante always has plenty to spare.

You pull his fingers out of your mouth with a wet gasp. “Rosi, I need help. Please–”

“I got you, baby girl.”

He adjusts his grip on your hips, getting a more secure hold so he can lead your movements rather than just guide them. The passing of control to him is unspoken, an agreement given with intent gazes instead of words. You feel completely safe in giving yourself to him fully, letting your tired legs relax as he takes over, and in turn, he’s careful in the way he bounces you on his length. He sets a faster pace than how you were taking him, but doesn’t go as hard as you’d like–thankfully, at this point in your relationship, you’re better at communicating your needs.

“Harder, Rosi,” you pant, “I need it harder.”

The brief flash of his grin is your only warning before one of his hands wraps around your thigh and yanks you further down onto him, spearing his length in as deep as it’ll go. The breath is knocked out of you as his cockhead nudges your cervix, but the intensity with which you clamp down on him, along with your full-body shudder, tells him all he needs to know.

“You even like that, huh? You like when I use you like a plaything. Filthy, needy girl…”

You cry out in agreement as Rosinante takes you harder, thrusting up into you while pulling you down to meet his hips. The furrow in his brow and the grit of his teeth indicates he’s close and trying to hold out, tapping into that crazy willpower of his in order to please you for as long as he can. Each deep thrust works you further into a blissful haze, coiling pleasure in your gut until you can barely keep your head up–you can barely do anything aside from moan. He tilts your chin up with one finger, slowing down slightly so he can steal another kiss. Neither of you can maintain it very long with you both breathing heavily from exertion, but you stay close, lips parted and panting against each other.

You go from bracing your arms on his chest, to his shoulders, to raking your nails down the scarred expanse of his arms, feeling the muscles flex beneath your fingers. His gaze is fixed on yours, and you couldn’t look away if you wanted to. Even with his pupils blown wide and his eyes half-lidded, it’s every bit as adoring as it always is in private, but there’s something deeper to it now. It’s in the years of him having watched your back, it’s in the long process that was the gradual lowering of your defenses, it’s in getting to the point you could be so mutually vulnerable, it’s in wanting to make each other feel good out of love and nothing else. You wished you could exist in this moment forever, just to be close in the ultimate way.

No matter how good Rosinante feels, it never builds right. You wish you could cum. You want to experience that with him. But at the same time, you know he won’t be upset with you for it. And so, when you inevitably feel the pleasure start to wane in a way that indicates oncoming discomfort, you feel no shame in speaking up.

“I can’t… Rosi, I can’t go much longer.”

Rosinante immediately slows down. “Want me to stop?”

“No, I–I want you to cum.”

His eyes darken, and he leans in to whisper in your ear. “Where do you want it, baby girl?”

“Inside.”

You can feel his dick twitch when you say it, and he rests his head on your shoulder with a low groan.

“Fuck. Okay. Sure, I can do that for you.”

Rosinante plants a sloppy kiss on your neck before turning toward the long end of the couch, gently laying you back without pulling out. He repositions you both into a more comfortable missionary, resting his burly arms above you.

“This feel okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, s’good.” You raise a hand to touch his cheek. “This way I can see your face when you cum.”

Got him. It took all day, but you finally turned the tables for once, and the result is a wonderful sight to behold. Even flushed with exertion, the blush across his face deepens to a shade you’ve rarely seen before, his jaw going slack. To his credit, he recovers quickly, bringing a hand to cup yours on his cheek and grinning down at you.

“Guess I deserved that after all of today.” He turns his head to kiss your hand. “I won’t be much longer, but stop me if you need to, yeah?”

“I will.”

“Good girl.”

Rosinante lets go of your hand to trail it down your side, settling on your hip to anchor you in place as he starts thrusting. He’s only slow for the first few thrusts, quickly working himself back up to a firm, brisk pace. Having held out until now, it doesn’t take him long to get back to the edge, evident by the way his groans deepen and intersperse with broken gasps. Just as erotic as the sound of him is the sight of him, abs flexing as his huge body rolls into you. It’s enough to spark your weary nerves back to attention, dragging the pleasure out one last time. 

“Fuck, it’s so good,” he moans, “always so tight, every damn time.”

Rosinante curls over you like he can’t hold himself up anymore, his head pressed to your shoulder, but it doesn’t slow the pounding of his hips at all, nor does it stop him from singing your praises into your ear.

“My sweet girl, so good to me. Love you so much, love that you’re mine…”

The husky devotion with which he says it has you throwing your head back onto the cushions and arching into his thrusts, whimpering when it angles him perfectly into your g-spot. The sound must trigger something in him, because his talking plummets from praise into filth faster than an angel falling from grace.

“You’re right, Y/n. We should tell my brother about us. That way I could fuck you every night, ‘til I’ve molded you to the shape of my cock. You’d get so used to it I wouldn’t need to hold back, and you’d fucking love the process, wouldn’t you? Begging me to fuck your pussy even though you can barely take it. We could even fuck in the room right next him and thanks to my power, he’d never even hear you screaming my name.”

“Rosi!” you cry, throwing your arms over what part of his back you can reach and digging your nails in. “Don’t you dare hold back! Give me everything, right now!”

It’s not a request he’s ever really granted you, but drunk as he currently is on the pleasures of your body–and maybe because it’s your birthday–he relents this once. A deep, uncharacteristic growl rumbles in his chest as his thrusts turn brutal, one arm braced above your head. His other hand’s wrapped around your thigh to keep you from bouncing off him from the force, ironlike grip keeping you in place so he never slips out. For a short but wonderful amount of time, you’re at the mercy of the brunt of him, just like you’d asked. At no other time does the scope of his size come into perspective like when he’s throwing all that weight behind his thrusts, three meters of solid muscle bullying your insides. It hurts a bit, but you’re treated to the incredible sight that is Rosinante on the edge, gritting his teeth and groaning like a beast, completely lost to higher thought.

“Gonna cum,” he gasps, and then he’s chanting your name like a sacred incantation, each time a little louder. His pace stutters, grip on your thigh tightening, and he pulls you down on him one last time, thrusting as deep as he can go and staying there with a penultimate moan. You can feel his length throb and pulse as he releases, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

For a minute, neither of you move, catching your breath and weakly holding each other. Then he pulls out, the absence feeling like a gaping loss as much as a relief. He has just enough presence of mind to collapse next to you rather than on top of you, trembling with what must be little aftershocks. A gentle touch to his cheek grounds him, making him blink and focus on you. He breaks into a dopey grin, pulling you close.

“You’re perfect.” He kisses you softly, all traces of roughness vanished. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You beam, somewhat giddy after having your craving sated so thoroughly. He’s no better off, giggling and kissing you again.

The post-orgasm clarity must hit him around then, because his face suddenly falls, levity turning to concern in an instant.

“Oh, shit! Oh, Y/n, are you okay?” He cradles your face in his hands, inspecting you as if it was your face that endured any of it. “I’m so sorry–I got a bit rough there, and we never went over a safe word–does anything hurt?”

“I’m okay, Rosi!” You cover his larger hands with yours, rubbing your thumbs across the back like he does for you when you’re stressed. “It hurt a little, but I would have stopped you if I didn’t like it.”

That helps him relax somewhat, though the worry doesn’t fully leave him. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not much. Might be sore later. Nothing I can’t handle.”

It takes some more reassurance before he’s satisfied, listening to you soothe his concerns while he massages your hips and thighs. You help each other come down, sometimes with touches, sometimes with soft words, sometimes just holding one another close and listening to the sounds of your breathing. You can only ignore the aftermath for so long, however, in this case being the trickle of his cum down your thigh.

“It is far too late for me to be realizing this,” you say, “but we forgot to put a blanket down, and now there’s stains on the couch…”

“Yeah,” Rosinante says, “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t feel bad at all.”

You snicker. “A pirate’s a pirate, huh?”

“Actually, that’s the Marine side of me.”

“No way. Pirates fuck way more than Marines.”

“I have news for you about shore leave.”

You mirror his grin. “You can tell me all about it, but I’d prefer a demonstration.”

“I bet you would.” He pulls you in for a kiss.

The last movie had long since played and ended without your noticing–thankfully, the snail put itself to sleep after the end of the movie (you sure hope so, anyway.) The shower isn’t large enough to fit both of you, so you take turns, each helping wash the other from outside the tub. While Rosinante’s no worse for wear, you benefit more from the hot water, easing your tension while he runs his hands over your sore muscles in an echo of his earlier worship.

After you’ve both cleaned up, you rehydrate with some tea before bed, sitting in his lap at the kitchen table and talking.

“Rosinante?” 

“Hm?”

You turn in his lap so you can look at him clearly. “Thanks for today. I really enjoyed my birthday. Probably for the first time in a long time.”

His smile lights up the room, and he hugs you tight, pressing his face into your hair. “I’m so glad!”

You giggle. “This is kind of dumb, but I kind of wish I had a cake after all.”

Rosinante pauses. When he lifts his head, his expression is hard to read, some odd mix of contemplative and sheepish that you can’t discern.

“Rosi?” you ask.

“Um…”

“What is it?”

He glances to the side. “...Well… I actually got a little cake this morning, but I dropped the box it was in when I fell… It’s still in the fridge.”

You sit up straighter. “Wait, seriously?”

“Don’t get excited! It’s totally ruined, at least in appearance. Still edible, but I was so embarrassed I didn’t want to say anything…”

You’re sliding off his lap before he finishes his sentence, going to see for yourself. Sure enough, there’s a little box shoved in the back of the fridge that you didn’t notice. It’s bent in a few places, and the clear plastic window on top of the box is smeared on the inside with cream, blocking your view of the damage.

Rosinante covers his face as you open the box. It’s a disaster; the layers of the cake are in different places, the whipped cream frosting is more on the inside of the box than on the cake itself, and the fruit pieces that must have been a beautiful outer decoration are now scattered. It’s hard not to laugh at the chaos of it, but you manage for his sake, especially considering the circumstances. The thought that he got up early after a tiring mission in order to find a bakery for you is more than a little overwhelming, and you know you’ll cry if you dwell on it too much. You’d take a dropped cake over a flawless one any day if it was coming from him.

“For the record, Rosi,” you say, “I think it’s perfect.”

There’s no way to cut a uniform slice out of the cake, so you fork a piece directly from the mess. It’s delicious, fresh and not too sweet, and even though Rosinante doesn’t care for baked goods, your pleased look convinces him to try it, too.

There’s some symbolism there, something about appearances and damage and sweetness in spite of it all, but for once, you don’t overthink it.

Rosinante has one last surprise for you when you snuggle into bed, getting your attention once you’ve settled in. “I had an idea,” he says.

“What about?”

“It would be a few days late for your birthday, but… I looked into the next island we’re going to stop at. Apparently, it’s famous for its zoo. And, you know, Law told me he’s never been to a zoo before.” He gauges your reaction, hesitant. “...I’d love to take you and the kids.”

Your love of animals didn’t escape his notice either, then. You smile at that, though it falters. “Sounds kind of like a date… What will we tell the others?”

“I won’t say anything. You will mention the zoo in front of the kids. Law will pretend not to want to go, but Baby 5 and Buffalo will jump at the idea, and he’ll end up tagging along. I’ll accompany you all as a ‘bodyguard.’ There’s a chance others in the family will want to come, but it could still be nice.”

It does sound nice. Even if you won’t be able to hold hands as you go, even if you’ll have to keep up pretenses–he’ll still be there, and the two of you will know the true meaning behind the visit. That’s more than enough.

Rosinante’s presence alone has always been enough, but the little ways in which he’ll go out of his way for you serve as comforting reminders of his devotion. It’s not as easy to harbor doubts when he always shows up to chase them away.

“I’d love to go with you, Rosi.” You scoot backwards until his chest is against your back, solid and warm as always. His arm automatically drapes across your body to bring you just a bit closer, and you both drift off like that–sated, secure, and looking forward to the coming days.

[baby-girl-aaron-dessner]

I don’t if you still want to talk about it since you have distanced your self from the Swift fandom but I just need to get this off my chest.

Today at work I was talking to a co worker who is a swiftie and since she is performing this week in my city she said “ohh he is going to be there 😏” and I was like I don’t like him so I don’t care. Another person there was like a did you see him on stage and I was like that was cute but when I saw the post she made on insta I cringed and thought it was too much and now the whole thing seems like she is over compensating for something.

The swiftie was then at least it’s better than her exes who hid and I was that’s not fair.

The rest of the conversation was civil but I am still annoyed because I wanted to punch her even though I like her. Like how can grown ass people genuinely make such accusations. I expected that from internet trolls but not adults 🤦🏻‍♀️

It’s so ok anon, I’ve distanced myself from the fandom and the celebrity worship part of things but I still love speaking to people. This is a safe space for you to speak your mind 💜.

The “tayvis” marketing strategy is extremely successful. Both parties have been able to tap into new demographics: the NFL has increased their female viewership and TS has increased her male fan base. It’s a mutually beneficial agreement which is why they’re milking it so much.

The crazy part about this is how gullible her fans are. They have no idea that the marketing mastermind who declares things like “are you not entertained?” Is playing into a PR strategy. She’s made it look believe to her fans but it’s quite obvious to outsiders. Even Taylor Nation which is part of Taylor’s marketing team is posting about tayvis and hyping them up.

I cringed at her post too. And I agree this is all too much and way too obvious. But, who am I to tell her fans that they’re being exploited? They will either realise it themselves or continue being used as cash cows.

[the-bjd-community-confess]

I watched a few of l@dy dis@in's videos while looking for experiences with the Pear doll and the videos aren't terrible, but the amount of smoke she and her husband blow up D@nny Ch00's ass is bordering on embarrassing. Even D@nny himself seemed put off at times in that interview. They're like peak Smurt Doll owner cringe, and to stan a man so publicly problematic is bizarre. Not like regular "oh he's just quirky" defenses, but to talk about him like he's some kind of genius celebrity and having so many 'Danny Saids' to excuse or justify. I won't be a hypocrite, I got a pear girl despite his antics. They are likely going to be ridiculously expensive second hand, and I'm not willing to pay more for a used vinyl doll than a new one. Anyway I don't want to bash them too hard, but it seems like their hero-worshipping attitude is considered some kind of norm. It's weird to me.

~Anonymous

[eremosjournal]

Confirmation or Child Wedding

an Anonymous Contribution

I just played music at what I hope is my last Confirmation mass. And for all the Catholics and ex-Catholics not talking about it, Confirmation mass is a strange fucking phenomenon, right? Though I could go on for hours, I just want to bring up one thing. 

Confirmation mass feels a lot like a cultish child wedding. From the girls’ perspective specifically. 

A group of thirteen-year-old girls, all in pure white dresses. An older man anoints their heads with oil while touching their faces. Two of these girls bring baskets of fruit to the altar during the preparation of the gifts (it’s giving… dowry). They commit their lives to a man (the cult leader himself) whose teachings they are not to question, and at whose feet they are told to worship. All wrapped up in a coming of age ritual. 

***

Years ago on a Confirmation retreat, I was assigned the “girl’s talk”. For those who don’t know, the girl’s talk will almost always involve some kind of message regarding the importance of virginity and otherwise moral purity for Catholic girls. But in an attempt to avoid this topic (partly because I was tired of it and partly because I genuinely liked sex and didn’t feel like lying), I thought I would give a whole presentation comparing their upcoming Confirmation to a big white wedding. 

All the aesthetic parts of a wedding were there: the church, the flowers, the white dresses. But thematically, I feel my presentation got away from me. In my Catholic delusion, I implied that - at the end of the big wedding-y Confirmation mass, their “spouse” would be God. I, of all people, was telling a bunch of teenage girls to marry God. I was only four or so years older than most of these girls, and I cringe to think of how weird and misled my girl’s talk was. That is, if they even remembered it. At this point, I myself have repressed most of the nonsense I spewed in my time as a youth leader. But I remember very keenly one thing I said during this girl’s talk:

“You don’t have to find a man who loves you so much he would die for you. Because I know one who already did.”

I literally want to throw up just reading that. It’s certainly a compelling line, and I remember it sticking with a lot of people. But that’s the power of organized religion. It artificially inseminates people - sinful, flawed people like myself - with the power to say pretty much whatever they want. We’re all sinful and flawed, so why was I up on a stage propagating purity and devotion when I could have been reassuring these girls that sin and flaw don’t make them bad people? This seems to be a recurring theme in Catholicism: having every opportunity to relate and connect with one another in our innate human faults, and instead leveraging that moment to bring guilt and insecurity upon others. 

If I could go back and give that talk again, I would keep the first half of what I said and probably scrap everything else. You don’t have to find a man who loves you so much he would die for you. Find yourself. You’re sixteen. Your Confirmation will not and should not be like a wedding. It will be crowded and long and forgettable. And you will not marry God. I’m embarrassed to think that I was so far up the church’s ass that the best, most prized celebration I could think of for a girl was a wedding. 

I remember wondering, as I was talking and talking on that retreat, if I was even making sense. But I was so turned on by my own conviction that I didn’t even stop to check if I believed what I was saying. I hope those girls I was preaching to are smarter than I was, that they stop to check if they believe what they’re saying. I hope they see themselves as more than lost brides. And I hope they find themselves, whether that involves faith or not. 

I’m tired of not talking about the archaic traditions that the church still practices and upholds. Sure, there is power in tradition and ritual, but at what cost.

[welivetodream]

Me at 13: ugh all these girls are soooo drama, I am different. I don't even wear pink and listen to pop songs. I guess I am 'not like the other girls'.

*cringe*

Me at 17: loves pink, doesn't like jeans and wears dresses and skirts, watches chick flicks, listens to mainstream pop, worships Taylor Swift, waits for the MET gala every year, loves gossip, watches Chanel, Dior, Balenciaga fashion shows, watches video essays on celebrity culture and media, follows fashion historians, hates sports, hates video games, hates most "boyish" activities and wishes I was in a Jane Austen novel or a Nicolas Sparks movie.

Me: I guess I am the other girls I used to talk about

[welcome-to-oslov]

World-Building Questions

Is it cringe how much I like getting comments on these stories? Then I'm cringe. All comments are helpful to me, but I especially like world-building questions. I got some great ones from Rain, who was reading "All the Kinds of Broken," and they gave me permission to copy the Q&A here as a resource. It's probably most helpful to anyone who starts with the prequel story, since the other stories address at least some of these issues (maybe not all!).

Is the story set in a nuclear winter? They are literally in the Arctic (Baffin Island, I think), and at least parts of North America (which they call Harbour) are still habitable and temperate. But the apocalyptic event they call the Unraveling did involve nuclear strikes.

Can you explain the calendar system to me? How many free nights are in a ten-day, or is it ten days of work, then a free night? How many free nights are in a row? I admit I've never actually figured out the schedule. It varies by which ten-day of the month it is, so it's really complicated! The number of free-nights varies from three to four to possibly occasionally five, and they never occur in a row. It's a workaholic culture, and the difficult-to-memorize schedule for Upstarts and government functionaries is yet another form of elitism. The Laborer schedule is simpler and more generous with free time.

When is New Year celebrated? How many days and months are there to a year, and how any holidays? Do days and months have names? For simplicity's sake, I gave them the same 12 months as our calendar and the same new year. There is a traditional winter fest in late December, but they generally shun holidays because of their association with religion, which is considered subversive. (There's a traditional religion some Laborers believe in, left over from Feudal times. The Spark is the main deity figure, and it all goes back to being deprived of power and the internet after the Unraveling.)

What is year zero, is it related to Whyberg? How many years has it been since then? How many years did the Unravelling take, and how many years since? I just looked at the timeline I wrote in a binder decades ago and realized it's irrelevant because I changed some major things. (Oslov used to be its own planet! :) ) So basically, the Unraveling was about 500 years ago. Major cities were devastated, and some refugees moved north to escape the radiation. They lost their tech and reverted to "Feudalism," worshipping the Spark (electricity) but seeing it as magic. Meanwhile, a major Arctic research station managed to preserve the technology and culture of the past, similar to a medieval monastery. For a long time, the scientists kept out the Feudals, but eventually their cultures merged and they had a "Quiet Revolution" in which they overturned the Feudal lords and chieftains and started to envisage a merit-based society.

The Quiet Revolution is year zero. Whyberg is born soon afterward and completes this project of basing social status on intelligence, which was the ethos of the research station. He codifies everything and creates the new government. This story starts in year 341. So 300 years after Whyberg, give or take.

Is sap an opium product derived from poppies? Sap is derived from the sap/pitch of the rare, delicate muirthorn pine, which becomes an issue later because the pine plantation can be sabotaged. According to Feudal legend, owls gave sap to humankind. What it actually is chemically is an excellent question, but in larger doses, it can have hallucinogenic effects.

Is Oslov slightly based off of the USSR with Oslov being Russia and a place like Thurskein a smaller SSR? How did Oslov come to conquer Thurskein? Does Oslov control any other states? Did Thurskein originally have a different language? What language is Oslov derived from? Yes! Oslov is partially based on my vague concept of the USSR as a kid growing up during the Cold War. Thurskein wasn't conquered, though, but built as an industrial city to produce goods for the rest of the Republic (there's one other such city: Karkei). It was always planned as a city of Laborers under Redda's control, and it's always shared a language with Redda, though it has its own dialect.

Oslov has an isolationist, anti-imperialist official ideology. But it does have a trading center in Harbour (formerly North America) and a garrison and exerts some power there by virtue of its tech—we see that in "The Trip to Harbour."

Oslov is mostly derived from Scandinavian and Germanic languages, but the research station had several nationalities represented, so there are also people of South Asian descent, Russian influences, etc.

You mentioned Kafka's Metamorphisis, I think, but what was the Tangle romance Tilrey read a bit earlier? Yes, The Metamorphosis is the insect one! I'm not sure if I settled on a specific book for the romance, but it might be Theodore Dreiser's An American Tragedy. In another story I think there's a reference to The Red and the Black. Both those are novels about ambitious young men trying to climb the ranks in an unequal society, so they have strong relevance for Tilrey.

Is the Upstart practice of having kettle boys raped by other servants of theirs intentional so as to create division within the lower class? It's a hold-over from brutal Feudal customs, but it serves double duty to create those divisions, absolutely. Mostly Upstarts segregate themselves from Laborers (living in different parts of the city, putting most Laborers in the industrial cities), but when they do live close together, they find other ways to keep Laborers from having thoughts about rebellion.

Oslov was inspired by the classic dystopia Metropolis and how it talks about the head (intellectuals, managers) versus the hands (workers) of the body politic. Oslovs think they have those two elements balanced in a fair, equitable way, with social mobility built in, but they really don't.

Thanks again for these great questions! I was looking through old stuff from high school, and I found the earliest Oslov stories I ever wrote, along with my unfinished guide to the Oslov language. Maybe I'll do another post with pics, just for fun. One story was typed on an electric typewriter and the other was printed on a dot-matrix printer, to give you a sense of time frame.

[asumofwords]

I was her fan for YEARS and then I guess I grew out of it lmao Funny ‘cause I’d assume that I’d be annoyed when she and I were younger ‘cause we all know that teenage/young adult celebs can be cringe right but no, she started getting on my nerves as an adult! I talked to my fellow ex-TS fan and she reminded me that she was the one who said that celebrities usually get stuck at the age they got really famous and I think she got stuck in her early 20s 💀 And I as a person grew and had to leave her behind, though I still like some of her songs. They’re not the pinnacle of writing though, her fans are wild to say that she’s THE writer of her generation lmao Anyway sorry for the rant I just feel alone on social media sometimes ‘cause everyone seems to worship her and when you say that you’re not a fan (anymore) they bully you to hell and back 🙄 Don’t want to bring any big discourse to you me blog, Tee! Sorry again!

Don’t be sorry!! And yes, the Swifty girlies are not to be trifled with !!