#kinktober2022comp

[preciouslandmermaid]

|throne| - morpheus x reader

Note: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts. 

prompt: face-sitting | pairing: morpheus/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His long, ivory fingers unlace the front of your dress with methodical care. You are here, in the Dreaming, resting upon his black sheets of an entirely too-large bed. Your palms twitch at your sides and your chest flutters like a hummingbird when Dream pins you with his eternal, heated gaze.

He says, “You are doing so well, my love.”

His touch is gentle and fleeting, peeling the thin, white dress off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor with a whisper of silk. Your thighs squeeze together beneath his appraising look. Every glance, every faint touch, burns into your skin like wildfire. He has asked you not to move, not to touch him, and you have obeyed for what feels like centuries.

Morpheus drops his lips to yours, kissing you slowly, and you feel his hum of pleasure reverberate through his chest. You arch your back, fingers clutching the sheets, and your peaked nipples scrape against the soft wool of his sweater. You gasp at the new, delicious sensation and Dream takes the opportunity of your parting lips to delve his tongue between them. He kisses you like it is the last thing he’ll ever do. His tongue strokes into your mouth with languid, playful motions, sucking your lower lip between his, and drinking in your soft mewls.

Your cunt throbs, your body writhes with longing, as he braces himself above you.

“I want to touch you.” You whine when you have a moment’s reprieve. His lips quirk into a semblance of a smile. You are in the Dreaming only until your alarm jolts you awake. You don’t want to waste any time.  

“I know.” He breathes, his hand traveling from the side of your ribcage to your hip, before he parts your legs with a single, large hand. His knuckles brush along your clit in a faint, barely-there touch and you whimper.

“There is something I want as well.” He drops the mental image—his fantasy—into your mind like a coin tossed into a wishing well. Your body prickles with heat and awareness and desire. You nod slowly in consent.

His lanky, dark body prowls over you, his hands light and tempting, before he rolls onto his back with glimmering, mischievous eyes. You nervously bite your lip, heartbeat hammering in your ears, and straddle Dream’s narrow hips.

He nudges you with his palms flat on your ass, “Higher, love.” His deep, rumbling voice causes a shiver down your spine. You shuffle forward until his head is between your thighs and you wrap your hands around the twisted, ivy-shaped iron of his headboard. You tentatively lower yourself and his breath ghosts across your sensitive skin.

“Here?” You rasp, nerves and excitement bubbling in your veins like fine champagne.

“Here.” He hums with contentment. The first touch of his tongue along your folds makes you gasp, and you jump, surprised, but Dream’s hands are on your hips and refusing to let you go. He starts slow with teasing, warm licks across your lips. You quiver above him with your hips jerking involuntarily.

You peek down at him and discover his eyes are closed, dark eyelashes kissing his pale cheeks, his wild hair like a shadow of dark feathers tickles your thighs. His hands drift from your hips to the swell of your ass, kneading and squeezing, keeping your cunt pressed against his mouth. His tongue slides into you and you both hear and feel his groan of wanton enjoyment.

Dream speaks directly into your mind; ‘I will never tire of the taste of you.’

Your eyes roll back into your head, seeing stars, and the Dreaming deepens with a rich, silver color—like moonlight. Morpheus works his mouth over your clit, sucking and laving, feasting on you with rumbles of pleasure. He holds you firmly in place as your knuckles whiten around iron-wrought leaves. Your thighs and arms tremble, shaking and pulsing with need, chasing that inevitable, brilliant release that only he can give you.

You are panting, glistening with sweat, and resisting the urge to hump into his face. His mouth draws away from you and a soft, begging “Morpheus,” slips from your lips. He does not verbally respond and nibbles along your inner thigh. Fine. If he is going to play games, then you are going to break his rules.

Selfishly, you plunge a hand between your legs, and fist a handful of his inky, soft hair. His eyes snap open and they burn with white-hot heat.

“I’ve been good.” You say with a pout. You card your fingers through his hair, stroking him like a big, predatory cat. It is such a marvel that the Lord of Dreams has such gentle, tender places. His hair, the curve of his throat, the space between his long fingers. You long to discover them all.

He hums, “You have.”

He returns to his ministrations between your legs with fervent intensity. His tongue works over you in restless, determined strokes and your spine buckles forward and you tighten your grasp in the root of his hair. The Dreaming ripples with molten, gold light and it glistens on your sweat-soaked skin. Your heart pounds, roaring in your ears, as your stomach clenches and your thighs quiver.

You come and a raw and guttural cry is ripped from your throat. Morpheus drinks in your sounds, your release, his hands pinning you to him and squeezing your buttocks. You sag, boneless, pressing your face into the cold metal of his headboard. Dream moves you with gentle, yet strong hands, guiding you to nudge your leg aside and lay on your back against the comfortable, silk sheets. You blink blearily up at him and your skin prickles at the sight of his mouth and chin shiny with your release. He strokes his fingertips along your temple to the curve of your jaw. His eternal blue eyes regard you with open affection.

He says, “Do you wish to continue?”

You nod almost drowsily, “Yes, please.”

His gaze stokes a new, hot flame inside your abdomen. This a dream you never wish to wake from.

[preciouslandmermaid]

|pain & pleasure| - carmy x reader

|pain & pleasure | - carmy x f!reader

Note: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts.

prompt: reverse cowgirl & spanking | pairing: carmy/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content. 

(completed prompt tag) || This fic is part of the NGHYB universe ;) 

Your hands dive into warm soapy, lemon scented water in the kitchen sink. The windowpane above rattles and reveals a world of drifting snowflakes and blue-gray skies. Chicago in winter in all it’s slushy, wind-swept glory. Your apartment is blissfully toasty, from the still-cooling oven to the little space heater tucked in your living room nook. You rinse a plate, setting it aside, as Carmy approaches you and places his hands on your hips.

“Need any help?” He asks, lips brushing the nape of your neck.

“Mm, no. I’m almost done.”

His thumbs caress the curve of your hips peeking from your sleep-shorts. Carmy sleeps here more often than he sleeps at his own place. Not that you’re complaining. There is something inherently wonderful about waking up next to his mussed, curly hair and naked chest. His lips roam along the side of your neck before he captures your earlobe in a teasing, lover’s bite. Your sudsy fingers nearly drop the bowl you’re holding.

He notices your fumble.

He chides, “Careful.”

You playfully roll your eyes, “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to break the 3-dollar bowls I bought in college.”

“No.” Carmy chuckles and his warm breath tickles your skin. “Definitely not.”

One hand is pushing underneath your shirt, over your stomach, and his fingertips ghost across the underside of your breast. You bite your lower lip and deliberately slow down, taking care to wash every single inch of the plate, sometimes going over it twice with the sponge.

Your schedules often function opposite to one another—Carmy works the lunch and dinner services at the Bear while you work early in the morning and close the bakery around 2pm. Sex, when it happens, tends to be hurried—because you’re both keyed up, either from stress or pure desire, and then it dissolves into a sweat-soaked tangle of limbs and need. This syrupy-slow sweetness that Carmy exhibits is new. You want to savor it.

His hand scoops under your breast, squeezing, and you lean into him. Your ass meets the hard length of his cock tented in his jeans. In the window above the sink, you can see your reflection, and Carmy’s hand shifting and flexing beneath the fabric of your shirt. His other hand dips into the waistband of your pajamas.

You grasp the edge of the sink with slippery hands and a hiss through your teeth when his fingertips glide across your folds. His mouth trails with hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. You wiggle your ass into his erection and earn a soft grunt from Carmy’s lips.

“Fuck.” He groans. Your head falls backward into his shoulder when his index finger plunges into your wet heat. The sink drain gurgles, the soap water swirls and bubbles, forgotten half-washed plates glisten beneath the kitchen light. You rock your hips in tandem with his thrusting finger, his movements restrained by the fabric of your shorts and underwear.

“Bedroom?” You ask, a touch breathlessly.

You feel him nod against the side of your face, his large nose skimming along your cheek. You leave a trail of clothing in your wake like breadcrumbs. You tumble onto the bed together and a laugh is caught in your throat that Carmy covers with his mouth. You position yourself over him on all fours, not quite straddling him, your legs spread wide and caged over his hips. You admire the trail of fine, dark hair that begins just below his navel and the V-shaped musculature of his lower abs.

His hands travel to your waist, then to the juncture where your ass meets the backs of your thighs, and he squeezes with a low, pleased hum. His right-hand lifts—and you know what’s coming—you smile against his lips before his palm strikes your cheek.

The tart, stinging sensation tingles down your leg.

“God—” Carmy’s words break off in a moan when you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, he is heavy and firm beneath your palm, and your fingers squeeze and draw up his shaft. “Fuck.” He whispers.

You pump your fist, and his hips buck into your hand delightfully needy. Carmy is always so high-strung, so tightly wound, that you feel a little drunk whenever you have him like this. When he’s panting into your mouth and gripping your ass so hard that you might have small circle-shaped bruises later.

You spit into your hand and smile wickedly before turning around.

“What are you--?” He throws his head back into the pillow, groaning. The tip of him glistens with pre-cum and your salvia and you rub yourself against him before nudging him into your wet, pulsing cunt. You gasp at the new, incredible depth of him, how the ridges of his cockhead feel on your walls when you bring yourself up and down.

Carmy grabs your ass again, his voice strangled and whimpering, “So good.”

He spanks you again and you yelp in surprise, though you can feel your cunt respond with a flutter of your walls and your heart skipping a beat. He rubs a careful, calloused palm over the stinging skin, before spanking you once more. You moan loudly, hands planted on his thighs, your thrusts shallow but deep—his cock rubs along your front wall and it elicits a wild, stoking fire beneath your skin. Your inner thighs grow slick with your arousal.

“Oh, oh god, yes!” You adjust your body, trying to hit that sensitive spot inside of you with each thrust, and Carmy’s palm meets your skin in a resounding, sharp crack. Your skin prickles, heat, and warmth blossoming across the struck area. Your legs clamp around his hips, and you glide your fingers across your swollen clit. He alternates between smacking your bottom and then running a soothing hand over the bright, smarted skin. You won’t even mind if you can’t sit down tomorrow. Everything feels too good to care. His cock fills you, tight and wet heat encircling him, your muscles clench as release teeters at the edge of a cliffside.

Carmy says, “Your ass is so fucking incredible.” Your scalp tingles with the compliment and a slow, pleased smile spreads across your face until you are lost once more in the throes of desire and a single-minded goal to come. Carmy clutches your hips and your ass cheeks throb with pleasurable pain from his attention.

“S’close.” Your words slur together, your fingers jerky and stuttering as your circle around your clit.

“Yeah?” Carmy pants, “Gonna come for me, pretty girl?” You nearly do—right then and there—when he calls you that.

You toss your head back, crying out, no longer thrusting but sitting with Carmy full and throbbing inside you. Your body spasms around him as you come with bright-white intensity. Distantly, through the haze of your release, you hear Carmy howl “F-f-fuck.”

His strong, muscled, and tattooed arm wraps around your waist. There’s an awkward movement of limbs (you are useless in this moment, still gasping and shivering from your orgasm) but you find yourself lying on your stomach, ass up, face and chest down. Carmy’s fingertips dig into your hips and the mattress squeaks beneath you. His cock pounds into you, sweaty-skin slapping into sweaty-skin, his breath haggard and desperate. Your sensitive walls weakly clench around him as you fist the bedsheets and mewl at the onslaught of pleasure and sensation.

“Fuck,” Carmy says in a strained grunt, “Gonna make me come. You – fuck - feel so good.”

You beg, “Please.” Your eyes roll back into your skull. Carmy might just make you come again, but you’re not sure if you can handle it. It doesn’t just feel ‘good’. It feels heavenly. It feels like you might pass-out from the intensity of it. Carmy is not often rough, unless you ask for it, but right now he feels unleashed and wild. He spanks you, lighter than times earlier, but your skin is raw and delicate and your head thrashes to the side in a sobbing gasp.  

“Love the way you—” He grunts, “—squeeze me when I do that.”

“I wanna—” You bite your lip, words bitten off when Carmy hits that deep, deep part of you, and body tenses in response. “—Make you feel good.”

His thrusts leveled into a deliberate, steady pace—no less exciting that the initial, wild thrusts he gave you when you switched positions. Carmy’s hips snap into the swell of your ass, burying himself deep, and you feel him come. You feel his cock pulse and his satisfied, drawn-out moan fills your tiny bedroom.

“You do.” He praises, lowering his mouth and kissing your spine. “You always do.”

“Mmph.” You respond eloquently. Your eyelids droop heavily, and you feel Carmy slip out of you with tender, exquisite slowness. He peppers kisses along your shoulders, and shoulder blades, his touch gentle and worshipful. You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you feel a warm washcloth between your legs. You smile faintly into the mattress.

The sheet is pulled up over your body before he collapses beside you, draping an arm over your back and nestling close. His breath dances across your bare shoulder, cooling with sweat, and he softly murmurs: “Goodnight.”

[preciouslandmermaid]

| comfort | carmy x reader

eNote: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts.

prompt: writers’ choice by @wolffininthestars | pairing: carmy berzatto /f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content. basically, I wrote a little fic of washing Carmy’s hair and it leads into Carmy taking care of reader ;) (established relationship/lots of checking in/consent/ROMANCE/can you read this as a NGHYB-universe fic?? sure! lol)

You’re dead on your feet after working a double shift. If not for Carmy tapping your leg on the train seat, you might’ve fallen asleep and missed your stop. The warm spring air lulls you into a sense of comfort while walking up your apartment stairs with Carmen trailing quietly behind you.

You appreciate that he doesn’t fill silence with useless, nervous conversation. He’s always been good like that. Maybe it’s a side-effect of his years of introversion as a kid, or maybe it’s because he realizes you’d be a shitty conversationalist at the moment.

Your jacket falls to a heap at the front door alongside your sneakers. Carmy stops you from collapsing onto the couch, tugging you gently by the wrists toward the bathroom with both hands, “C’mon.” He mumbles, “You’re greasy.”

You snort. “Pot meet kettle.”

He rolls his eyes. His fond, exasperated look brings a smile to your face. The bathroom fogs with condensation once the shower is turned on. Your apartment wasn’t fancy, but the hot water never failed you. You lift your arms, letting Carmy pull your shirt over your head, and he presses a soft, chaste kiss to the middle of your brows.

“Can I take care of you?” He asks – bashful and sweet. Your chest balloons with warmth and Carmy’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek. You nod, simply too tired for words, and Carmy peels the rest of your clothes off with tender, slow hands. He even removes your smelly, gross socks which you think is the nearest thing to an admittance of love.  

You step into the steamy, blissful shower and sigh loudly.

“Don’t pass out.” Carmy calls from beyond the foggy, mottled glass.

You laugh. “I won’t!”

You start to feel like a human again as the hot water sluices down your body and moist air fills your nostrils. You awkwardly nudge to the side when Carmy joins you. Your exposed skin outside the stream of warm water prickles with goosebumps.

You bite your lip and smile at him when he pinches water from his eyes and blinks. His dark curls flatten against his head beneath the showerhead and droplets run down the curve of his jaw and drop like tears from the tip of his large nose.

He squirts a quarter-sized handful of bodywash into his palm. He starts at your shoulders, and you groan, his strong fingers work through the tension of your neck and shoulders, the bodywash silken and smooth beneath his hands. His thumb rubs circles at the nape of your neck and then massages down your spine, to your hips, then up again. You press both hands against the wall to hold yourself upright.

His touch is entirely innocent as he glides his palms over your breasts. Your thoughts -however- are understandably sinful. A low spark ignites in your stomach and dances down your legs. He holds your waist and guides you under the full stream of the water to rinse off the foamy, fragrant bubbles. You close your eyes and lean into his chest. His hands slide over your arms, a touch that is affectionate and practical to clear away the last of the soap. The world is quiet beyond the sounds of your own heartbeat, shared breath, and the water rushing through the drain.

You say, “Mm. I have an idea.”

“Hm?” His nose brushes the shell of your ear.

You grab your shampoo from the edge of the bathtub. “Turn ‘round and tilt your head back for me.” You say while pouring a bit of shampoo into your palm. Carmy does so without question or complaint. Some guys might grumble about smelling like ‘Fresh Jasmine’ or ‘Clear Spring’. But Carmy doesn’t. You work the shampoo into a lather between your hands before touching his scalp.

He exhales a shuddering, extended sigh. The bubbles foam and seep through the gaps in your fingers and saturate his hair. You imagine all the grease, and stress, and cigarette smoke being washed away through your deliberate and firm hands.

You scratch his scalp, massaging it, and Carmy groans. You notice his shoulders relax and you hate the idea of stopping—but you have to. You make a mental note to do this again for him sometime soon.

“Okay, rinse.”

His hair plasters onto his forehead before he slicks it back with both hands. He blinks water away from his eyes and meets your gaze. Your heart somersaults. His skin is flushed pink from the shower and water drips from his earlobes. The ceiling swirls with hot steam and unspoken desires.

He scoops an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him, “Feeling better?”

“A little.” You admit.

“Good.” He drops his head down and kisses you. Warm water splices between your lips, tickling your chin, and gliding down your collarbones and breasts. He presses the full, strong length of him against you and the wall tiles are cool and delightful against your spine. Your mouth opens, letting him in, as you always have. Carmen Berzatto always managed to undermine all your defenses.

His tongue plays along yours. A soft sucking sound echoes in the small, heated space of the shower when he draws your lower lip between his. You purr happily, your fingers splayed like twin stars against his muscled chest. You find his heartbeat under your palm. It’s strong, and fast, and familiar. Your scalp tingles with awareness and your stomach flutters.  

He mutters against your mouth, “Can I touch you?”

You hum. “Yes.”

Your spine knocks against the tile again as Carmy parts your thighs with a firm, tattooed hand. You grip the muscled curvature of his shoulders for balance. He kisses you once more when his index finger slides playfully, teasingly across your clit. His touch between your legs is light and coaxing. It elicits quiet, unrestrained whimpers from your throat and your hips twitch involuntarily. You’re happy to stand here, holding him, letting him touch and play with you as he pleases. Your brain shuts off. The stresses of the day wash into the drain. He moves his fingers in a concentric pattern over your clit. You shudder against his palm.

He asks, “Is that good? D’you like that?”

“Y-yeah.” You respond in a breathy voice.

Slowly, ever-so slowly, Carmy plunges his index finger into your waiting, throbbing cunt. You are wet and warm around his finger. You cry out softly in relief into his mouth and his exhaled sigh from his nostrils tickles your upper lip. You hike your leg up around Carmy’s waist to allow for more space. The slick bathtub squeaks dangerously beneath your foot.

You flex your fingers on his shoulders, tightening your grip, “Don’t let me fall.” You say – as if you haven’t fallen for him already.

“I won’t.”

His lips trail across your jaw, kissing away shower water, and leaving a hickey on your exposed, arched throat. You le tout a needy little moan. The echo carries through the steam and water. His middle finger thrusts into you, pumping, slow and sweet. You inelegantly jerk your hips in tandem with his hand.

You peer up through your water-clumped eyelashes at him. Carmy, in this moment, is the same Carmy you’ve seen glimpses of in the kitchen. Determined, focused, single-minded in whatever task he’s got in hand. (In this case—it’s you). Your body is slick with water and hoping not to fall even with his arm taught around your waist.

“Do you wanna come?” He asks shakily, “I wanna make you come.”

He captures your mouth before you can answer. You playfully and lightly nip his lower lip—which earns you a rare, beautiful smile that crinkles the corners of his doleful blue eyes. His fingers curl into you, stroking your front wall, and you gasp at the shudder that travels down your body.

“God,” Carmy chokes out, looking down at his fingers disappearing into your cunt, “You’re so fucking pretty.” Your inner walls pulse around him.

You mumble, “Keep talking.”

And bless him, he does.

“I l-love…” His brow furrows, stumbling over his words, “The face you make when you’re close…”

Forgoing the risk of falling on your ass—your hand slips between your legs to rub your clit while his fingers continue their ministrations. The joined sensation makes your head spin.

He swallows roughly, “And how you sound…”

You whine, gasping shortly into his mouth, your hips bucking into his hand as that blissful, white-hot pleasure coils and twists in your gut. Everything compounds – moist heat and Carmy’s purposeful touch – until you’re panting and trembling around his hand. He rests his forehead against yours, water splashing around your ankles, and dripping from his soaked curls.

“Fuck – fuck – Carmy.”

“That’s right, baby.” He says, “’m gonna take care of you – m-make you feel so good.”

“Yes, yes,” you repeat the word until it loses meaning, until the only thing that matters is the lava burning through your veins, and you’re gushing over his fingers. Your spine bows forward, limbs quivering into satiated numbness, and you collapse into his wet, muscled chest.

He kisses the top of your head, wrapping both arms snug around you, “Feeling better?”

“Oh yeah,” You smile against his skin, “Definitely.”

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((tag list: @wittyno /// @lafantasiaworld // @comfortwaterbottle // @thebearinmind // @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek​ // @buzzfrill​ // @man-johnnie​ // @reesespieces10123​ // @a-wake-and-unafraid​ // @mondieumat​ // )_

[preciouslandmermaid]

| costumes | carmy x reader

Note: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts.

prompt: Masks/Costumed Sex | pairing: Carmy Berzatto/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content. (+unstated but reader is on birth control/creampie)

Bonus Note: Took a while for me to figure out what costume’s everyone was gonna wear. Now we are here. This fic is set in the future/post-canon. Established relationship between Reader/Carmy. I’m sorry Carmy couldn’t be more dressed up/wearing an actual mask. He just…he’s not that GUY, you know? Also, yes, this is a NGHYB Universe Fic. 

The Bear signed up to be one of the many businesses that handed out Halloween candy for kids. Your bakery didn’t join simply because you were already swamped with orders of cakes that looked like spiders and ghoulish cupcakes. Now, Carmy didn’t tell his people to dress up, but you can already see from a distance that Richie is in costume. He’s wearing a brown jumpsuit and what appears to be a vacuum strapped onto his back.

You grin, approaching him from across the street, “Ghostbusters, Richie? Really?”

“Uh.” Richie looks at you like you’ve just said the stupidest question in the world, “Yeah, duh.”

The candy table’s cheap and flimsy orange plastic tablecloth flutters in the crisp, autumnal wind. A cursory glance reveals that there’s a QR code to learn about their menu along with a sign-up sheet for emails. Your grin widens. This has to be Syd’s handiwork. The cooler of neon-green liquid, however, is clearly Carmy’s with a hand drawn sign that says ‘Ecto-Cooler’.

“Also, you can’t say shit about my costume.” Richie says, brimming with annoyance, “What are you? A fucking cat?”

“What gave it away?” You ask sarcastically, “The drawn-on whiskers or the ears?” You tug on the hem of your black turtleneck. A little low-effort compared to Richie’s—but you worked with what you had in short notice.

“Neither.” His grin is quick and sardonic, “You’ve got a cat-like attitude about you.”

“Your meaning?” You can already guess where Richie is going with this. He’s either going to call you a pussy, and throw Carmy’s name in there, or call you high maintenance.  

Fak exits the Bear with a fistful of glowsticks, “Don’t listen to him.” He’s wearing a stringy, two-dollar black wig that keeps getting into his eyes, a white t-shirt under a black vest, and a red sweater tied around his waist. Another 80’s movie character. You can’t help but wonder what Carmy’s wearing.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Richie shouts, “You’re just being a little bitch ‘cuz I didn’t wanna dress up as Bill.”

“I am not!” Fak says while cracking glowsticks and taping them to the Bear’s doorframe. “It is a little weird to be dressed as Ted without Bill though, you know.”

Richie laughs, “Oh my God!” He gestures at Fak with a flat hand, “Here we go again! See?!”

You use this opportunity of their bickering to slip around the back and head into the Bear through the backdoor.

You find Carmy in his office, bathed in the warm orange-light, and you stop a little short in your tracks. He’s got…product in his hair…and slicked it back away from his face, shiny and clean. His jeans are cuffed at the bottom and a rumpled, red windbreaker with the collar popped hugs his frame. His head is bent over—what you assume is an invoice—while his outstretch hand scribbles notes onto a large yellow legal-pad of paper.

You search your brain for classic 80’s movies based on Richie and Fak’s costumes. You think your presumption is wrong, but you try for it anyway.

“Hmm.” You clear your throat and Carmy looks up, “Marty McFly?”

His eyebrows leap in surprise, “James Dean.”  At your blank expression, he adds, "In rebel without a cause."

“Carmy!” You laugh, “There’s no way any of the kids are gonna know that.” You drop yourself onto his lap, winding your arms around his neck, and press a quick and affectionate kiss to his temple. You catch the corner of his soft, quiet smile with your mouth.

In the months of dating, Carmy has softened. He’s a little more eager to let you in, to share his troubles, or apologize in the moments when he’s being non-communicative. Now, you’re not exactly Girlfriend-of-the-Year, either. But you’re figuring it out together, navigating the landmines of past trauma and stumbling your way into building something with strong, foundational roots.

His warm palm slides up the slit of your long, black, and flowing skirt and caresses your thigh. You realize offhandedly that you had instinctively shut the door when you came in. Your lips meet his and gladly open for the stroke and playful tease of his tongue. You resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair—not wanting to ruin the obvious effort he put in—and you settle for clutching the stiff, red collar of his windbreaker.

His office chair squeaks beneath your combined weight, Carmy leans back, nudging your legs apart so you’re sitting with his thigh wedged between them, and your toes touching the floor. His lips move to your jaw, suckling sweetly, and your spine arches with a familiar, heady sensation traveling to your core.

“Carmy, we’re gonna have kids outside in like thirty minutes.” You remind him.

Your hand comes to his throat, just under his jaw, and feels his strong pulse beneath the pads of your fingers.

He huffs, chuckling against your wet skin, “Don’t be too loud then.” He teases.

His hands come to settle on your ass. He pulls you closer, then pushes back, wordlessly guiding you to grind on his leg. You sigh happily and let your eyes roll back. Carmy’s lips on your neck, hands on your waist, and your cunt rubbing against the rough fabric of his jeans—separated only by the thin fabric of your underwear and the even-thinner fabric of your skirt. Once your grinding against him, he shoves both his hands up your shirt, and bunches the fabric above your breasts. A trail of goosebumps rise in the wake of his palms, touching the cool air of his office, and contrasted warmth of his hands.

He tugs the cup of your bra down and laves his tongue across your nipple. You catch a whine in your throat. You might’ve closed the door, but you don’t think it’s locked.

He breathes against you, “Yeah?” His tongue flicks over your erect, pebbled nipple and gently tugs it between his teeth. The action sends a firework of sparks along your skin and your knuckles flare in the tense grip around his shoulders.

“Mhm.” With your verbal encouragement, he repeats the ministration on your other nipple, leaving the other to prickle with the cool air mixed with Carmy’s saliva. You push your hand between your bodies, sliding down Carmy’s pristine white shirt, and palm the front of his jeans. His hard, straining cock twitches against your hand. He makes a desperate, filthy noise in the back of his throat.

You love him so goddamn much it makes your entire body shudder. You capture his mouth, panting against his tongue and teeth, close to coming just through grinding like a teenager at a drive-in movie. You continue to cup and caress his cock through the tight, rough fabric of his jeans, and Carmy willingly spreads his legs wider—even though space is limited on his squeaky, metal office chair. It’s enough to make you dizzy.

“Carmy,” You gasp with pure want. “I need you inside me right fucking now.”

He doesn’t even balk at your demanding, needy tone. Secretly, you think he might like it with how he’s able to unravel your control and composure. You disentangle from the seat and collect the long skirt, bunching the flowing fabric around your hips, and Carmy’s makes a short, strangled noise as you bend over his desk.

You glance over your shoulder and see that he’s removing the red windbreaker. He notices your raised eyebrow.

“It’s vintage.” He explains quickly while hanging it on the door.

You snort and roll your eyes, “Of course it is.”

Carmy’s hands rest on your waist and he squeezes your ass tenderly, “Ready for me?”

“God, yes, please.” You rasp, “Hurry.”

There’s a rustle of fabric, your underwear is pushed to the side, and Carmy’s breath hitches—somewhere between a gasp and a groan—his finger grazes across your slick folds. You nearly snap at him again, beg him to hurry up, to fill you but then the tip of Carmy’s cock is right where you need him. He pushes into you slowly. You choke on your moan. Your hands clutching nothing but boring paperwork on his desk. The papers crumple beneath your palms when Carmy draws out, the ridges of the head of his cock rubbing deliciously along your walls, before he slams back into your cunt.

“Fuck!” You suddenly shout.

Carmy laughs, “Shh!”

He fucks you with singular, focused purpose. His hands hold your hips, your legs spread wide, as his cock pounds into you. You can feel the soft, faint touch of his balls when he buries himself deep and then pulls out. His breathing is hoarse and erratic. Each stroke is driving you close to madness and provoking hushed, pleased mewls from your bitten lips. You rock and thrust against him, your ass hitting his pelvis, making his cock hit something deep and primal inside your cunt. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the tiny, quiet office combined with his restrained, depraved grunts.

His hand slides between your legs and finds your slick and swollen clit, “Mm- fuck.” He says lowly. He plays with you, his index and middle fingers moving in a rapid concentric motion, sending your heartrate into overdrive. You collapse, unable to hold yourself upright, and pillow your head onto your arms.

For a lucid moment—you consider how you look and how someone would see you if they happened to walk in. Your shirt is still bunched up over your collarbones, your tits spilled out from your bra and rubbing against the bills and invoices, your skirt rucked up around your waist while your boyfriend ploughs into you over his desk. It’s like a scene from a porn flick.

You glance over your shoulder and discover Carmy lost in the throes of passion. His face cherry-red and sweaty, the lower muscles of his abdomen flexing (when did he toss his shirt? Is it vintage too?), his lower lip trapped beneath his teeth as he holds back his moans. That’s what sends you over the edge. Carmy, all hot and bothered, burying himself into you as if he’ll die if he doesn’t.

Your entire face scrunches as your orgasm hits and tears spring to your eyes. Your legs tremble and you’re grateful for the stability of the desk under you. Your walls clench around Carmy’s cock, tight and pulsing, and his thrusts stutter. He sheathes himself deep into you and comes with one of his hands clamped over his mouth. You press your lips together, swallowing your own cry of release and pleasure, especially after feeling him come inside you and feeling how his cock swells and twitches inside you.

“Fuck.” Carmy sighs languidly.

You fix your top with a smile, “Yeah, you said it.” You shove a few tissues in your underwear to stop his cum from leaking out before you can reach the bathroom and adjust your skirt. “Meet you outside in a few?”

Carmy blinks, as if in a daze, and your heart flips at his Just-Fucked expression. You lean over, kissing his cheek, because you can’t resist not showering him in physical affection. That helps him snap out of it and his smile is brighter than Rockefeller Center at Christmas.

“Y-y-eah,” He swallows, “Take your time.”

Before you can leave, however, he grabs your elbow and kisses you. It’s a slow and gentle kiss—sweet as rain during a drought—and he mutters a quiet, “Love you, “ on your lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Richie looks at you and his grin widens dangerously. “You’re missing a few whiskers, kitten.”

You check your reflection the Bear’s window and grimace at the smudged whiskers and your clumped mascara. “Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

For good measure, you throw a Snickers at him, and it hits him square in the chest.

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

TAG LIST: I’m sorry, I forgot to tag people LMAO - 10/20/22

@wittyno  // @comfortwaterbottle // @guyfieriii // @thebearinmind

@lafantasiaworld  // @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid //  ))  

[preciouslandmermaid]

| best I’ve ever had | carmy x f!reader (curvy/vampire)

Note: All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. Generally, I don’t focus on many details about the reader because I want them to be as much of a “blank slate” as possible. So, this is my first ever time writing a curvy/body diverse reader. I would love to hear to your feedback. In this case—Reader is the vampire because that felt more fun to me. (Where ARE all the body diverse vampires tho???) Also – eat the rich. Literally. 

prompt: vampire au/accidental stimulation/almost getting caught. | pairing: carmy berzatto/f!reader!curvy/body diverse | warnings: explicit sexual content. vampire!reader can do whatever she wants. 

Bodegas and greasy diners, 24-hour gas stations and burger joints, nightclubs, and bars. Colleges, parks, and stacked-up apartment buildings. New York City thunders with life. The city that never sleeps. The hunting ground that never empties.

It’s all too easy to get a quick waitressing job that pays under the table and doesn’t ask you for a social security number. After centuries of immortality, you’ve learned to be careful. You don’t feed on anyone you work with. You’ve got your sights on bigger, richer fish. The restaurant down the block is blue-blood expensive, winning accolades and praise, with reservations that stretch six months in advance.

A few months ago, you followed a couple who had eaten there. After draining them dry, you were hooked. There’s a common misconception that the media gets wrong about vampires. You’re not wild, savage creatures. You care about what the blood tastes like. And quite frankly, the Uber driver you drank last week was a poor, poor substitute for the nutrient rich, expensive blood you drank from the restaurant.

Tonight, you changed into one of your finest dresses. It hugged your hips and inched up your generous thighs whenever you sat down; very nearly revealing the plush underside curve of your ass. The color complimented your skin. It’s a risky, attention-getting outfit considering its nearly December. You almost walk to the restaurant, but a whim draws you to the subway.

You enjoy the heat of bodies, their sweat, and pheromones, all packed within a metal tube like a sardine can. Your mouth tingles with anticipation. You shoulder yourself among them, a killer in plain sight, and grin—your canine teeth sharp—at the appreciative gazes that men and women throw toward you. The subway car crowds. Slush and mud slicks the floor into a workplace hazard.

Everyone sways backward an inch, bumping into each other, as the train pulls from the station with a hiss of hydraulics and a droning, automated voice advising all the idiots to stand clear of the doors. You are immovable. Your balance impeccable. However, whoever is behind you isn’t so steady on their feet. They catch themselves on the bar near your arm, but you feel the front of their jeans brush against your ass.

A scent wafts through the air—onion, smoke, and heat. Your nostrils flare. The smell is familiar. It’s the same scent that permeates the fancy restaurant. You adjust your position slyly and the next station stop makes his (it’s definitely a male) crotch bump into you yet again. You focus on his heartbeat amidst the fifty-or-more other humans. It skips when he touches you. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the blood traveling to his neck, his face, and below his navel.

Bodies shift as people disembark and shuffle around to make impossible room for the other travelers. You use the opportunity to nudge yourself closer. You are intimately familiar with every inch of these cars after decades in the city. The stranger is pinned into an awkward corner of space with no where to move.

He adjusts his weight from one foot to the other and you’re delighted to hear the hiss of breath he exhales through his teeth. Oh, he is tightly wound. You bite your lower lip. You never could resist a good game. But the game is only fun when it’s played by two people.

At the next stop, you turn around to face him. His face is bright, beautiful red, flushed and ripe for your fangs. Your full chest presses into his and there’s a soft, tantalizing sensation across your nipples when you dress rubs against them. He’s avoiding your gaze. Cute.

You stare at his pulse below his jaw. A few seconds pass before the train slows and an annoyed, crackled voice announces that they’re going to be stopped for a few minutes because another train is delayed.

“Rotten luck.” You say, sighing, “I thought the late-night trains ran express to avoid this type of issue.”

He blinks, confused, before realizing that you’re talking to him.

He clears his throat, “Y-yeah.”

You introduce yourself, suffusing your voice with temptation and honey.

“Carmy.” His voice is rough around the edges. You fall into a pleasant, benign conversation with him. He’s going to work. He’s a chef. He works at the fancy restaurant. He’s lived in the city for a few years. He went to school all over the place. You try not to stare at his pulse for too long.

The train resumes. Your hunt begins in earnest.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At your stop, you intentionally lose Carmy in the crowd (or rather, you make it seem like he’s lost you). In truth, you have his scent, you have his name, and his face. He didn’t know it, but he was underneath your claw, and he could squirm all he liked but would never be released.

You’re not going to poach for rich assholes drunk on expensive wine and excellent food tonight. Your plan has changed. You’re going to the source. You’re going for something lovelier. The hunger and passion you saw in Carmy’s bright, exhausted, and doleful blue eyes—that was your objective tonight.

You skip the line, the askance for a reservation, and seat yourself at the best table in the place. Your powers of hypnosis against the high-strung wait staff is mere child’s play. You could do it in your sleep. You order the most expensive dish, and a bottle luxurious red wine, and you…wait.

An hour passes and another low-effort hypnosis allows you to pass your dish along to another table (“Oh god, we’re so sorry, miss!” the waitress said, looking ready to pass out.) You wave her off with a delicate, fanged smile.

“I’d like to give my compliments to the chef.” You announce once another hour passed, “Directly.” You add with a soft nudge of your willpower. For a moment, the waiter looks confused, until their eyes muddle gray and wistful.

“O-of c-c-course. Yes.” The waiter nods meekly and scurries toward the kitchen. It takes longer than you like, but you’re immortal and you’ve got patience in droves. Carmy walks toward your table, dressed pristine in white a chef’s uniform, his hair slicked back and expression haggard.

He doesn’t hide his surprise upon seeing you. You circle the rim of your untouched wine glass with your finger. His pulse roars jumpy and erratic in your ears.

“When you said you were a chef, Carmen, I didn’t know you’d be The chef.” You say with a playful smile. You rest your arms on the table and lean forward. Carmy’s eyes dip toward your cleavage and your grin widens appreciatively. He recovers with a small shake of his head.

“You didn’t mention you were—” He licks his lips, “—coming here.”

“Should I have?” You raise a single eyebrow, “My apologizes. Would you have made me something special?”

That stuns him into silence. His hands fidget with a spoon between them, bouncing the metal against his palm, and you wish you could sink your fangs into the warm heat of his inner wrist. A low, pulsing desire throbs between your legs.

“I – um – “ He stutters, “I n-need to get back to my station.”

You nod and respond flirtatiously, “thank you for the meal, Carmy.” His eyes widen. Your lips did not move when you spoke.

He practically flees into the kitchen. You lean back smug and pleased into your chair.  The waiter asks if you want desert. You tell her you’re going to have a cigarette instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t smoke. However, you smelled cigarette smoke on Carmy and for the second time tonight, you simply…wait. You hold an unlit cigarette between your fingers and ignore – or reject – anyone who tries to offer you a light.

The heavy metal door that leads into the kitchen pours fluorescent light into the empty, yet narrow alleyway. Carmy is briefly haloed by the light before it shuts. He leans against the door and sighs. You could trace the fatigue of his shoulders with a knife.

“Bad night or good night?” You ask from your spot on the opposite side.

“How did you do that earlier?” He asks instead of answering, “Are you like—” He swallows, and you raise your eyebrows. You’ve always loved this part. That moment when humanity tries to create answers for the supernatural. At this rate, you’ve heard every excuse, though their denial is charming.

“I don’t know. A ventriloquist or something?”

You reply, “it would spoil the fun to know the answer, wouldn’t it?”

He shrugs while attempting to light his cigarette. The cold, snow-touched December breeze keeps snuffing the flame out no matter how many times he shields it with his palm. You approach him and cup your other hand around his, blocking the flame from the other side, and Carmy peers up at you as the tip of the cigarette ignites and its ember burns inside his pupils.

Your fingertips gently glide against the thin, delicate skin of his inner wrist.  A trail of smoke ghosts like a kiss over your cheek. He doesn’t flinch. He’s hardly breathing. A flicker of ash drops to your shoes.

“Your heart’s racing.” You observe passively. “Is that because of me or something else?”

“Something else.” His heartrate accelerates. You know he’s lying. You decide to be merciful and don’t call him out on it. Instead, your thumb finds that delicious, thundering pulse and you press into it. Your body hums with a pure, and powerful lust. For his blood. For something else. You bring Carmy’s hand to your mouth and drop your lips to his palm. You can smell every ingredient he’s cooked with. Every spice. You can smell his sweat and the sharp, underlying note of his arousal.

Your lips graze across the callouses on his fingers, never breaking eye contact from him, pulling him succinctly and powerfully under your allure. You draw his index finger into your mouth. Carmy’s knees buckle, his cigarette tossed and forgotten, something wild and desperate dominating his flushed features. His groan is quiet compared to the rest of New York City but to your ears, he is loud and intoxicating. You flex your tongue across the joints of his finger before sucking lightly and pressing your body flush to his.

Carmy’s hand lands on your hip and he fists the silken fabric, his hand is trembling. You release his digit slowly, savoring his hazy expression, savoring his heartbeat in place of your own. It would be so easy to lean in, to latch your fangs to his throat, but you resist. Not because you feel anything sentimental toward him. But because you want this to last beyond a few minutes. After centuries of being alone, you deserve that, you think.

He’s the one to close the distance and he kisses you with all the awkward, clumsy grace that can only belong to humanity. He squeezes your ass with both hands, hands bunching fabric, and brisk air teases every inch of your exposed skin. His tongue is warm and welcome, and you drink the filthy, raspy moans that he delivers like a prayer into your mouth.

You can taste his passion. Not only his desire for you, but beyond that. All his vibrant, beautiful humanity—his love for cooking, his love for creation. It is full of deep and robust flavor like black, strong coffee. His ambition tastes like citrus, sharp and biting. His exhaustion tastes heavy and coats your tongue like dark chocolate. Your eyes roll back into your head in pleasure.

You could kiss him for an eternity. But there are only hours before sunrise. You kiss the side of his throat—just for the hell of temptation—and your fangs throb painfully in your mouth. You do not often deny yourself like this. Carmen Berzatto is alone. He is enraptured by you. Yet, you refrain from draining him. You drop to your knees before him in reverent supplication.

Carmy’s breath hitches in his throat—“W-we—” You sense from his surface thoughts that he’s going to say something like ‘We cannot’ or ‘We shouldn’t’ or ‘We’re going to get caught’.

“Shh.” You soothe while pulling down his zipper, “I promise we’ll be fine.” You glance warily up at him through your sooty lashes, “Unless you want us to stop?”

“N-no. Please.” His throat bobs with a rough, agonized swallow. You hum in the back of your throat, pleased by his response, and the weighty warmth of his cock in your hand. Your tongue flattens against the vein pulsing on his shaft. Carmy’s head falls back with a ‘thunk’ into the metal door. You swirl your tongue around the ridges of his head before pulling him into your mouth. You moan around him. His hands turn to white-knuckled fists at his sides.

You draw backward, trailing salvia in your wake, and sink him further into your mouth during your second stroke. Your hand encircles him, squeezing lightly, following the path of your lips as your head bobs up and down over him.

At any moment, you could bite and have your satisfaction.

Yet, you don’t. You resist, and resist, and resist, all while listening to Carmen’s frantic heart and rushing bloodstream. He is muttering a mixture of curses and your name in a litany of praise and disbelief. He is close. You can tell by the spike of his heartbeat and a thousand other clues.

The door behind Carmen almost opens, “Hey Carm!”

You slap your free hand against it and slam it shut. You are not going to let some stupid, garlic-smelling human interrupt you. You groan, cheeks hollowing, taking Carmen’s cock as deeply as you can and drooling down your chin. He is panting above you and a single, tattooed, and calloused hand holds the back of your neck. His hips stutter and he is sweet enough to hurriedly announce, “’m about to—” before his words are lost in a bitten-off, soundless cry.

You are a creature of control. Yet something inside of you, something human and forgotten, unravels at the sound and sensation of Carmy coming into your mouth. Your thighs clamp together. Your own desire is slick and pooling between your legs. You spit his cum onto the concrete steps. If you were human, you would’ve made a different choice, but anything that wasn’t blood tended to make you ill.

Carmy looks down at you with droopy, bewildered blue eyes. You deliberately rise slowly to your full height. He tracks your movement as if in a daze.

You cup his chin between your fingers and tilt his face to the side so you can observe the glorious sweaty and flushed skin of his throat. His carotid artery beats like a drum. Your fangs prickle. Your eyes—unseen by Carmy—darken.

You can wait no longer. Your fangs penetrate his skin and his blood gushes hotly into your mouth. He shudders, grabbing you, holding you close and moaning shamelessly at the euphoria that overwhelms his mind and heart. You whine, one hand clutching the back of his skull, the other on his hip. He tastes divine. Everything you tasted in his kiss is increased by tenfold. His blood travels down your throat in pumping, warm spurts. You are drunk and delirious and frantic for more.

You drink, and drink, and drink, flexing your lips over the wound you’ve made. Carmy’s heartbeat is slowing in your ears like an ecstatic drumbeat losing its vigor. You clutch him closer as if you could fuse your bodies into one being. He tastes so good. You can’t remember the last time someone tasted like this.

You stop before his heart does. Your tongue laves over the puncture wounds, and they heal with supernatural efficiency. You lean back your head back, regarding him with a gentle curiosity, and find he’s semi-lucid.

“Tell me where you live, Carmen Berzatto.” You demand. Luckily, he tells you before passing out in your arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the nights that follow—you find yourself in his bed and his cock is buried deep within your cunt as you ride him. Compared to past lovers, he is eager to please and quick to learn. You never have to tilt his jaw. He does it willingly. Nearly begging. Offering you his neck or his wrist without batting an eyelash.

“Go ahead,” He tells you without fear. Like he’s giving you something. Like he’s created something for you. You always oblige. Somehow, it is better than the first time. Your walls clench around him, and your eyes roll into your skull when the surge of blood hits your tongue. Your control improves and Carmy only passes out half the time after you’ve fed on him.

You never go to the restaurant again. (Except for a single, secretive rogue trip to “meet” Carmy’s boss. But that little story is between you and the trash beneath the Hudson River).

~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: 

@wittyno  // @comfortwaterbottle // @guyfieriii // @thebearinmind

@lafantasiaworld  // @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid //

[preciouslandmermaid]

twin wrath | morpheus x reader

Note: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts. 

The sandman/Morpheus prompts can be found on ao3 >> here

prompt: consensual angry sex requested by @sadskies​ | pairing: dream/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content. 

Not gonna lie, I feel like you could read this as part of my series – quiet fury (read here). I’m not really good at writing angry stuff so it ended up getting kind of soft toward the end LMAO SORRY. 

You sense his displeasure through the Dreaming. The mighty and proud Dream Lord is seething for reasons unknown to you. The angry flash of lightning that cuts through the sky bodes unwell. And you walk through a torrent of rain. You lift your collar against the wind and water and huff with annoyance when you cross the threshold into the castle.

Mervyn notices you first, “I wouldn’t bother him, Your Ladyship. He’s – uh –.” The pumpkin-headed man cringes in response to peal of booming thunder.

You roll your eyes, “He’s throwing a tantrum.”

You peel off your boots and sodden jacket (both of which Mervyn takes before a puddle of rainwater accumulates on the glossy, marble tile). You ascend the steps and walk through the corridors with a single, narrow purchase of mind. Dream’s essence calls to you in the way of all things familiar, like pollen attracting a bumblebee, or static electricity jumping from one surface to the next. You don’t need to find him. You only need to follow your own steps.

When you turn the corner to his wing, the hallway chills by about three degrees. This expanse of white marble walls and dark rugs and vibrant oil paintings contain your rooms—Dream’s and yours—they are adjacent, joined by a wall, and occasionally intersect and overlap through Dream’s Magic. You do not knock before entering his room.

He whirls on you, seemingly taller for a moment, before he catches himself.

“I am not to be disturbed.” He says coolly.

You shrug, “Then put a sign on the door next time.”

His room is spartan with dark colors that hum with velvety warmth and a clean, sharp aroma that smells like the earth during a rainstorm in summer. There is a bookshelf with his favorites and a large bed swathed in silk.

Dream is upon you in an instant and you do not flinch.

“You dare.” He seethes.

“As I always have.” You retort, “If you are trying to bully me into leaving - it won’t work.”

Dream takes your chin in hand, pinching your jaw, and his words burn straight to your core. “Do you know what your odyssey has cost us?”

You cannot find it in your heart to regret your actions.

You flash your teeth in a quiet snarl. “The Endless may not intervene with mortal affairs, but I am bound to no such laws.”

He crowds in your space, intentionally forcing you to step backward, and your spine hits the closed door. You clutch the lapels of his dark, wool coat for balance and narrow your eyes up at him. A trickle of rainwater drifts from your temple, you feel it glide coolly down your skin before it meets Dream’s fingers. He tracks its movement with his burning, blue eyes.

You lick your lips, “You cannot punish me for leaving the Dreaming.”

“No?” His eyes flash with molten, hungry heat.

His chest heaves, and then there is no space between you at all. His mouth is agonizingly close to yours, but he does not kiss you, claim you, as you want him to. If it is a game of patience, then you know he will win (a hundred times over) because waiting was never in your skillset or your strength. You are a difficult, proud, and restless creature. His breath ghosts across your mouth. You are walking into an open flame when it comes to Dream in this mood. Yet you welcoming its charcoal-tinged embrace.

You surge upward, kissing him, shoving your tongue between his lips with reckless and demanding attention. Your hands plunge into his soft hair and there is a distinct ‘sszzrrt’ sound before chilly air is touching your thighs. You will bemoan the loss of such a pretty gown later and Dream will undoubtedly create a dozen more to placate you.

Dream’s mouth latches onto your throat, his teeth searing and branding, his thigh wedges between your legs. You grind against him, glad for the friction, a low pant rising in your chest.

“Do you mean to mark me?” You ask, eyelashes fluttering as he sucks your skin between his teeth, “As if I am not already wholly and completely yours?”

He groans softly, a muted ‘Yes’ hidden behind the sound of his desire.

You pull at the root of his hair and Dream rewards you with a soft hiss through his clenched teeth. The rough fabric of his jeans rubs deliciously against your thin, damp panties and you buck your hips with wild, eager thrusts.

Another tear of fabric echoes through his room and your dress splits into tatters and drifts to the floor like tissue paper.

His large pale hand covers one of your breasts, his palm warm and waiting, and his thumb and forefinger rolls and pinches your nipple. Sharp and tempting. You gasp and your head knocks backward into the door. A delicate dance of starlight dances in front of your vision. Dream’s tongue thrusts into your open mouth, drinking in your quiet moans, and demanding more.

As a lover, Dream has always put your pleasure first, his attention wholly on you until you are satiated and relaxed. Yet there is something different about this time. You can feel it in the fabric of the Dreaming, how it sings and pulses around you.

He drops his thigh away from your cunt and replaces it with his hand, cupping you, and a low—pleased—growl rumbles from his throat. He pushes aside your damp underwear with a single finger and plunges it into you without warning. You keen, crying out into his mouth, warm air escapes from the corners of your mouth. He pumps into you once, twice, before sliding a second digit into your wet, aching core.

You shudder around him, surprised by your own desire, but not ashamed of it.

You push his coat from his shoulders. Suddenly, it is gone, vanished by his will. Your palms caress his smooth, muscled forearms. There is only the wet, squelching sound of fingers pumping in and out of your cunt and your needy, whimpered gasps.

Your hands travel back to his shoulders, to his neck, and you wrap one hand around his throat. You apply light pressure under his jaw with your thumb and index and middle finger.

Dream breaks the kiss and moans, breathy, his eyes dark and hazy with lust.

“Enough.” He rasps, pulling his hand from you swiftly, and lifting you up against the door. The tip of his cock presses against your wet, aching cunt and all thought disappears from your mind. Dream enters you in one hard, sudden stroke and your teeth clack together. He holds you, strong and firm by the hips, and drags you back and forth over his length.

You gurgle, tugging at his hair, feeling his ridges rub against your walls. He fucks into you with brutal efficiency and your breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts. You sensed correctly. This is different. Dream is focused on his own pleasure—his touch is hungry, greedy, and subtly harsh. He squeezes you, he leaves love bites across your throat and collarbones, as if he’s trying to imprint himself onto the marrow of your bones. (As if he is not already written there in the soul of your being.)

You drop your forehead against his, too exhausted to hold your head upright, and whimper. You gave into the sensations. His warm hands, his soft grunts, the hardwood behind you. You wrap your legs tight around his waist, as tightly as you could without restricting his movement, and Dream hisses softly.

Dream says, “Look at us. Look at me.”

You force your eyes open, only a little delirious with the speed and intensity that he fucks into you and drops your gaze to the joining of your bodies. His cock vanishes into you, slick and glistening, and your face prickles with heat. You claw his shoulders for support, your nails digging into supple flesh, and your throat squeezes with a low, low whine.

He firmly presses his lips to yours. The texture of hardwood on your spine vanishes and is replaced by dewy, soft silk.

His breathing ragged, uncontrolled, and his hand yanks at the root of your hair—arching your neck—a moan leaves your mouth at the pressure and unrestrained nature of his deliberate movements. Your walls clench around his cock, your thighs tremble, and the world unravels around you. You are so very, very close.

Dream withdraws. You cry out, enraged, lust-drunk, and panting.

His eyes are dark, a slow smirk pulls on his lips, “Do you wish to finish, my love?”

“Yes.” You hiss with a note of sarcasm honeying your voice.

“I could leave you waiting.” His fingertips trail across your sensitive, inner thigh, “and wanting.” He traces a circle just underneath the bend of your knee.

You reply, “In terms of patience, you know I have none.”

He chuckles, “I know.” He moves languidly onto his back. There are no further words, no instructions. You toss your leg over his hips and sink back onto him with a shuddering, relieved exhale. This is bliss, pure ecstasy, pure desire. Your nails scratch thin, red lines down his muscled chest as you ride him, your breasts bouncing, and your breathing erratic.

His palm smacks your ass, sharp and stinging, though your body gushes with enjoyment. He spanks the other cheek before rubbing the enflamed, tingling skin with a gentle, warm hand. You’re going to lose your mind. Your spine bends forward in supplication, and you wrap your fingers loosely around Dream’s throat.

He thrusts into you, steady and confident, and it only takes a handful of strokes before you’re orgasming and squeezing him with a long, guttural moan. The world factures in brilliant light and then reforms. Dream buries himself to the hilt and tucks his face into the crook of your neck when he comes. You taste his salty sweat on your tongue and the air thickens with a hazy, white afterglow like mist rising from the sea.

The storm outside has abated. You lift your head, weakly, and narrow your gaze at your husband.

“Why were you so upset with me?”

Dream stares at the ceiling with his jaw clenched.

“Because.” He begins slowly, “I lost you once before. I do not wish to endure that tragedy a second time.”

Your pride bruises, “I can handle myself.” You respond tartly.

He looks almost…frustrated…as he pieces the words together in his mind before speaking. His eyes meet yours, glassy and bright, “I once thought the same and yet, Burgess imprisoned me for a hundred years.”

“It’s different, now.” Your hand finds his among the dark, silken sheets and intertwine your fingers. “We have each other.”

His mouth softens, “Yes,” He breathes, “Yes, I suppose we do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(( tag list:  @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek​ // @buzzfrill​ // @man-johnnie​ // @reesespieces10123​ // @a-wake-and-unafraid​ // @mondieumat​ ))  

[preciouslandmermaid]

KINKTOBER FILLED PROMPTS/MASTERLIST

I am filling these in-order of receiving them, and I’ll do my best to start posting every day (We’ll see tho lol).  (The ** means I’ve never written for the character before but I’m excited to!)

Bold = complete 

update: all filled requests will go under this tag: kinktober2022comp // You can find Carmy fics on ao3 HERE and Morpheus ones HERE  

1. Face Sitting - Morpheus x F!Reader  2. Spanking/Reverse Cowgirl - Carmy x F!Reader  3. Writers Choice - Carmy x F!Reader (to tag: @wolffininthestars ) 4. Masks - Carmy x F!Reader  5. Praise Kink+ Car Sex + Gagging - Carmy x F!Reader  6. Angry Sex (consensual) - Morpheus x F!Reader (to tag: @sadskies ) 7. Begging + Dry Humping + Formal Wear - Carmy x F!Reader  8. Somno (consensual) - Carmy x F!Reader 9. Boobs Worship + Titty Fucking + Being Recorded - Carmy x F!Reader  10. Loss of Virginity + Aftercare - Carmy x F!Reader  11. Face Sitting + Creampie + Biting - Morpheus x F!Reader 12. window/Balcony + Clothes Ripping + Cock Warming - Battinson** x F!Reader  13. Mind Control + Vampire + Handjobs - Steve Harrington** x F!Reader (to tag: @celestakitty) 14. Shower Sex - Morpheus x F!Reader  15. Sex Pollen + Praise Kink + Mirror Sex - Matt Murdock** x Black, Chubby, F!Reader (to tag: @noodlecupkitty)  16. Anywhere but the bed (lakehouse) - Carmy x F!Reader 17. Thigh High Socks + Mutual Masturbation - Carmy x F!Reader  18. Bondage + Mind Control + Aftercare - Kylo Ren x F!Reader  19. Blood Kink - Battison x F!Reader  20. Dirty Talk + Accidental Stimulation + Massage - Carmy x F!Reader 21. Vampire AU + Accidental Stimulation + Almost Getting Caught - Carmy x  Curvy, Body Diverse F!Reader 22. Breeding/Trying to get pregnant - Morpheus x F!Reader/mortal-made-immortal  23. Slow/Soft/Sensual - Morpheus x Curvy F!Reader  24. Swallowing - Carmy x F!Reader  25. Hand Jobs + Lazy Makeout/Sex - Carmy x F!Reader  26. Deep Throating - Carmy x F!Reader  27. Temperature Play + Bath/Shower + Swallowing - Kylo Ren x F!Reader (to tag: @pinkish-elegant ) 28. Mirror + Size Kink + Choking - Carmy x F!Reader  29. Manhandling/Rough + Ropes + Pregnancy - Battinson** x F!Reader  30. Size Kink + Dirty Talk + Drunk/Stoned/Under Influence - Battison** x F!Reader 31. Pregnancy - Morpheus x F!Reader  ~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Prompt List) Duplicates: This is where I’m putting duplicated requests. I’ll consider these as “bonus” requests that I may or may NOT get to <3 Wildcard/Writer’s choice with Carmy/Reader, Face Sitting/Creampie/Biting with Carmy, 

[preciouslandmermaid]

do u think you’d be up for a kinktober taglist? i literally refresh ur blog everyday bc i dont wanna miss out on a new fic 😭😭😭😭but i understand if youre not up for it -love

Hiii ! I don’t know what a tag list is 🫣 so as of right now, I have my filled prompts list pinned and all completed fics will go under #kinktober2022comp

annnd i’ve only finished day 1 and day 2!! but if there’s an easier way for folk to find fic and consume, pls lmk!!! xoxo

[slightlypossessed]

the writing is beyond perfect

i wanna frame this

| comfort | carmy x reader

eNote: All kinktober content is mature/explicit. Fics will be posted on Tumblr first, then transition over to ao3. All fics will be reader/canon-character with no use of Y/N. I will do my best to include additional warnings, but most should be self explanatory in the prompts.

prompt: writers’ choice by @wolffininthestars | pairing: carmy berzatto /f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content. basically, I wrote a little fic of washing Carmy’s hair and it leads into Carmy taking care of reader ;) (established relationship/lots of checking in/consent/ROMANCE/can you read this as a NGHYB-universe fic?? sure! lol)

You’re dead on your feet after working a double shift. If not for Carmy tapping your leg on the train seat, you might’ve fallen asleep and missed your stop. The warm spring air lulls you into a sense of comfort while walking up your apartment stairs with Carmen trailing quietly behind you.

You appreciate that he doesn’t fill silence with useless, nervous conversation. He’s always been good like that. Maybe it’s a side-effect of his years of introversion as a kid, or maybe it’s because he realizes you’d be a shitty conversationalist at the moment.

Your jacket falls to a heap at the front door alongside your sneakers. Carmy stops you from collapsing onto the couch, tugging you gently by the wrists toward the bathroom with both hands, “C’mon.” He mumbles, “You’re greasy.”

You snort. “Pot meet kettle.”

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