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currently watching... leviticus (2026) ✧ listening to... staying by lizzy mcalpine
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currently working on...
✧ mermaid!reader // cameron cassmore
✧ unlikely partners // holland march
✧ eternal sunshine: part ii // ryland grace
recent works...
✧ doctor, doctor! // (dr. samira mohan)
✧ sweet, sweet dreams // tsats chapter iii (rhett abbott)
✧ i forgive it all // es chapter ii (ryland grace)
do not re-upload my work. copyright (c) doveypearls.
hi guys here’s an excerpt from a lars fic that i started in the absolute depths of my depressive episode that i am still trying to figure out how to finish <3 posting for the sake of motivating myself to work the ending out :,(
tw: referenced suicide attempt // WIP under the cut!
summary: rehearsing on a hot day for a gig gets you just the right amount of hot and bothered.
word count: 2.9k
tags: afab reader but neutral pronouns; bandmate!reader; fluff and smut (pwp, fingering, clothed sex, quickies); confessions.
a/n: this fic quite literally came to me in a dream but i was too embarrassed to post it bcus it was originally rpf. thank god cameron cassmore came home at just the right time!!
First of all, you’ve done a great job at keeping your hands to yourself for the past few weeks.
It’s a miracle, really. You don’t like to think of yourself as some kind of crazed, lascivious fiend, but lately, it’s been getting harder to push down the urge. It’s no one’s fault but your own that, every time Cameron strolls by, your heart starts beating a little faster.
Second of all: you’re not quite sure what’s going on between the two of you yet. The tension is thick enough that surely everyone else has noticed by now, if their sideways glances are any indication. Your band mates must be sick and tired of witnessing the pair of you giggling between mic tests, walking shoulder to shoulder whilst setting up the stage, and clinging to each other like you’re conjoined at the hip. If you were in their position, you would be equally disgruntled by the barely-disguised affection shared between you; the notion is only made worse by the fact that neither of you have dared to admit to your growing feelings.
On your part, you’re worried that the magic felt on stage will disappear once the tour is over. It’s a miracle that the band even managed to land a tour and a spot at a musical festival in the first place, short-lived as it may be. If you’re doomed to live in the perfect little bubble only to watch it pop after a few short weeks, you can live with that. Dealing with the press might be a pill, but you’ve tolerated plenty of egotistical musicians and pretentious rock stars. A little situationship surely couldn’t kill you.
Right?
You’ve been done rehearsing for the past hour, and now you’re just waiting to be called back for another soundcheck later in the day. With nothing else to do, you wander around the lot, snacking on an ice pop that you graciously accepted from one of the sound technicians. It’s delightfully cold and sweet, a perfect contrast to Florida’s suffocating humidity. Your feet drag across the paved lot, a serpentine path. You suck on the ice pop with a wet smack, shaking off the syrup that drips down to your fingers. When the last of it is gone, melted away on your tongue and sliding down the back of your throat, you unceremoniously toss the remaining wooden popsicle stick over your shoulder.
“Couldn’t wait to find a trash can?”
You freeze mid-step. When you swivel around to find that familiar face, Cameron is tilting his head at you, pointing at the little stick on the ground. With a coy smile, you shrug, your pulse already jumping a few beats faster than usual.
“Oops,” you try unconvincingly. Cameron laughs and bends over to pick it up. The back of his shirt lifts up to show a sliver of skin. You stand on your toes and cock your head to the side to get a better look. When he straightens up, so do you. “All done for today?”
Cameron shakes his head, twirling the syrupy popsicle stick between his fingers as he approaches you. “Not yet. We’re on lunch.” He gestures vaguely ahead to the lot where buses are lined up. “Wanna sit? Cool off?”
Your eyes stray to his hands, to the stick spinning between his fingers. The veins on the back of his hand are prominent — the heat is undoubtedly raising his blood pressure. Your gaze picks back up to his face — his eyes are already on yours — and you nod, licking the sugar from your lips.
“Mhm. Save me from my boredom.”
Cameron laughs, and you walk side-by-side to the tour bus. Your crooked path leads you to bump into his shoulder every few steps. He bumps you back a little harder each time, trying to knock you off balance. It becomes a game, laughter in the air even after you’ve made it to the bus. You plop down on the couch like you own the place, leaning back and relishing in the cool breeze blasting from the trailer’s air conditioner.
Cameron grabs a water from the mini fridge, offering one to you. You shake your head, but when he cracks the top open for a gulp, you steal it from him and take a drink for yourself. It’s perfectly ice-cold. He narrows his eyes in faux irritation.
“A thief and a litterer. Did no one ever teach you to have manners?”
His playful chide makes you chuckle. You pat the space beside you on the couch, waiting for him to come join you.
“My apologies. Maybe I need a few lessons.”
There’s a suggestive lilt to your voice that warms the air. Cameron hums, his eyes glinting as he sits beside you. His pinkie touches your thigh — a warning, or an invitation, as you’ve come to see it — before his hand fully rests upon it.
“I could certainly try to teach you. I doubt you’ll be a very good student,” he replies, clicking his tongue.
You scoff, trailing your fingers up the length of his arm with a grin. “Ye of little faith…”
With a tug on his sleeve, you pull Cameron towards you. He falls into your gravitational pull, leaning over you with one hand on the couch beside your hip. His other hand cups your jaw, holding you steady as his mouth lands upon yours.
Your eyes flutter shut. With a sigh, your hands slither up his spine, your nails dragging an upward path to the back of his neck. He sighs when he feels your fingers lightly tugging on the hair at his nape.
Cameron pulls back briefly, but he doesn’t go far; his nose nudges against yours.
“You taste sweet,” he murmurs, a shy smile spreading across his thin lips.
“It’s ‘cause of the popsicle,” you say proudly, glad to have indulged. You fully lean back with your head on the arm of the couch, shifting under his weight. “Wanna taste some more?”
He drops his forehead against yours, a breathy giggle bubbling up from his throat. “Mm, yeah. I don’t see why not,” he murmurs, already going back for more.
The thing about Cameron is that he is, much to your chagrin, annoyingly tender. You can tell he’s holding back, trying to be the perfect gentleman. His kiss is soft and slow; you have to be the one to give his hair a little tug, to bite his lip to signal for more. It’s not helping your internal battle with the whole ‘trying-not-to-be-a-horny-freak’ thing — but on the bright side, he reciprocates.
After that bold move, Cameron finally dares to let his hands wander to your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into the tasteful scintilla of skin exposed by the bunched hem of your shirt. Your own hands start a much greedier path of their own, clawing at the back of his white T-shirt and yanking the hem up so your palms can slide up the faint ridges of his vertebrae.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat when you start to rub your thighs together. You inadvertently end up rubbing against him, hips rolling forward. The fabric of his jeans is coarse against your own.
“Shit,” he whispers, barely parting from your mouth as he speaks. “We still have to go back.”
You whine, not allowing him to move any further than he already has. “Lunch just started. We’ve got enough time.”
Cameron doesn’t put up any more protest than that. His fingers skirt over the button of your jeans, feverishly working them open. His hand dips inside — not all the way, but enough to warn you the same way he always does when he’s escalating a touch.
“Keep going,” you mutter before he can ask for permission.
He huffs, pushing his hand further down your jeans, but not yet applying pressure where you need it. “Manners. Say ‘please.’”
It’s annoying how much that little tease turns you on. Doesn’t he see how much you’re already aching?
With a whiny tone of voice, you try again: “Please keep going.”
Cameron hums, and his fingers press against the gusset of your underwear. “Better. Keep being good for me.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat when you try to reply. It takes a few attempts for you to make your voice work — you keep getting distracted by his fingers rubbing over your slit through your underwear.
“I’m always good.”
“No you’re not.” His reply comes so fast that you both laugh, breathy and delighted.
“No, I guess I’m not,” you agree with a lazy smile.
You kiss him again. It’s hard to pretend not to be needy when your panties are already soaked and sticking to your skin. Cameron can most assuredly gather that you’re having a hard time keeping it together; his hand climbs back up to slip beneath your underwear, directly touching you this time. A sharp intake of breath fills your lungs, and your hips knock upward to meet his palm.
“Easy,” he murmurs, kissing you slowly. His fingers are moving at an equally lazy pace. “I’ve got you.”
Although you desperately want to grind against his hand — even more so when a single finger sinks into you, lost in the silky heat between your legs — you show a monumental level of restraint. Your hips shake with slow, weak contractions; your nails dig into his back, leaving reddish-pink lines down his pale back. You’re trying so, so incredibly hard not to beg him to fuck you already.
It’s all too easy for him to make you cum on his fingers. You can feel the wetness gathering between your legs, soaking his open palm. You release a breath that you didn’t know you were holding, so great it could be your last.
Cameron gently removes his hand from your underwear only to kiss you again, harder than before. It makes you dizzy. He’s breathing heavily, his damp hand resting on your tummy for a moment. When you eagerly kiss him back, Cameron finally gives his jeans a tug. Of course, you notice — you eagerly reach between your bodies to free him from the tight denim. He doesn’t stop you or remind you about your manners again, so you figure he must be just as desperate as you are.
With your help, Cameron shucks his jeans and boxers down just enough to expose himself to you. Your eyes linger on the golden-brown happy trail, then further down to the shape of him. He’s so stiff it looks painful; he leaks precum that you only now realize has left a damp patch on his boxers. You secretly delight in his cupidity.
While you admire him, Cameron seems to get the slightest bit impatient — his own manners briefly exiting the room as he reaches down and starts to yank at your jeans. When you lift a brow, smiling playfully, he shakes his head.
“Don’t start,” he mutters, cheeks pink as he forcibly becomes gentler with his touch — he’s clearly reminding himself to be a gentleman again, to avoid hypocrisy at all costs lest you take the opportunity to make a jab at him.
“I didn’t say anything, Cam,” you reply with obnoxious sweetness, lifting your hips to make it easier for him to remove your clothes.
Cameron rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyway. “Yeah, but you were thinking about saying something.”
“Oh, the horror. Premeditated teasing.”
Fabric rustles as you kick your jeans and underwear off; they hit the floor at the same time as Cameron playfully slapping your thigh. He leans over you, one hand beside your head.
“You suck.”
You put on a stupid grin. “On occasion, yes.”
Cameron furrows his brows, feigning annoyance. “You’re such a smartass, you know that?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just too easy to bother you.”
Your response just makes him shake his head, a suppressed smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“I suppose the attention is nice,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock between your still-wet folds. “I think you like the attention, too.”
Your moan is all the answer he needs, but you nod anyway, letting your legs fall further apart for him.
“Just a little bit,” you murmur.
He sinks into you with relative ease. You both let out a sigh; the bus is precariously quiet for a moment, save for the sound of your own blood pumping in your ears.
“Fuck, you’re good,” Cameron hisses, barely rocking his hips against yours. He’s already gripping the arm of the couch hard enough to leave deep indents of his fingers in the cushions.
A trembling huff of air escapes you as he pulls out halfway, then returns to press his hips into yours. Your hands slide down to his lower back, firmly guiding him forward with every agonizingly slow thrust.
“Cameron,” you pant, lashes fluttering. You can’t take your eyes off the way he sinks into you, the way the muscles in his tattooed arms strain beside your head, the way his breathing is clearly labored. “Faster, I need— please go faster,” you beg, remembering to say ‘please’ halfway through.
Delighted by your self-made correction, Cameron nods, pushing his loose hair back before following through on your request. His hips come down a little harder, slapping your thighs with his own. You whine, legs bracketing his hips firmly whilst your body leans into his every thrust.
“Mm, fuck me, you’re so fucking good,” he swears again, closing his eyes.
“Kiss me,” you plead, nails digging into his hips.
Cameron doesn’t need a second to think about it. He leans down and kisses you, using one arm to hold himself up while the other lands on your thigh, holding it firmly against his hip. He grunts and sighs and pants into your mouth, his cock twitching inside you. He’s getting frantic now; Cameron moans shamelessly as he takes you, burying every inch of his length inside your velvety walls. Your body sucks him in, nearing closer and closer to release.
With a shaky groan, Cameron grips your thigh harder, setting a firm, punishing pace.
“Shit, I’m gonna— Where? Where?” He asks urgently, ripping himself away from your kiss; his cock is twitching inside you, dangerously close to release.
For a moment, you almost tell Cameron to cum inside you, to fill you to the brim and never stop — but even in your depraved, hormonal brain, you figure it’s not the best idea.
“Stomach, my stomach,” you pant, looking between your bodies again to make sure you witness this.
Cameron nods, sending one hand down so his thumb can roughly circle your clit. You gasp, squeezing around him instantly and arching your back.
When your cunt grips his length, Cameron groans, thrusting slower now as you cum on his cock. He barely manages to pull out in time; by the time he frees his length, he’s already spurting out his seed. You’re in a rush to tug your shirt up high enough for him to have a decent canvas. Even so, his cum dribbles onto the couch between your legs, paints the outside of your puffy folds, and eventually covers your stomach — right where you asked for it. A few drops still land on your shirt anyway. You can only hope your band mates don’t notice or mention the suspicious stains you two have left behind. (It’s unlikely you’ll get away with that, though. Wishful thinking.)
Cameron gives his length several firm pumps to be sure that every last remaining drop covers your tummy. When he’s entirely finished, he rubs your thigh, eyes finding yours. You reach up to card your fingers through his hair.
“You know, there are these things called ‘condoms.’ We should try those one day,” you muse, smiling lazily.
Cameron laughs, shifting his weight. The movement makes you whine from the lingering sensitivity.
“Yeah. Probably. Sorry.” His cheeks are wonderfully pink — all of him is, really, from the heat that overtakes the trailer as a result of your bodies. It’s a little uncomfortable — you hate the sticky sweat clinging to you now — but it was for a worthy cause. Your sex life lives to see another day.
Cameron rolls off the couch to get a towel. He cleans you first, then himself; it’s a little strange to watch him walk around with his zipper down and his softened length hanging out, but you’re getting used to the sight. Maybe it’s a strange blessing to get to view this sort of thing at all.
“You know,” he starts suddenly enough to catch you off guard, “we should grab dinner later, just the two of us.”
You perk up from the couch, shuffling around to hold your weight on your elbows. “Really?”
He glances from side to side, an awkward smile slanting his mouth. “Yeah? Unless you don’t want to…?”
The smile on your face is enough to relieve Cameron before he can start doubting his offer. With an enthusiastic nod, you swing your legs over the side of the couch, sitting upright again.
“I’d love to.”
He grins, clearly a little relieved. “Good,” he sighs softly, relaxing. You hadn’t realized he was nervous at all until now.
“Good. Very good,” you agree, leaning forward enough to brush your lips against his cheek. “In fact, I might let you have me one more time before the lunch break is over.”
He’s not a total idiot — he’ll never turn down an offer like that.
fancy some more?
> YES. > NO.
tag list . . . @qardasngan @mornomn @lonelydreamersoul
if there's one thing abt me i'll always happily be the third to a ship i love idgaf. "i only read x reader fics so i don't have to cuck" is suck a weak mindset. i seek out fics where i can sit back and watch babyyy
How it feels when you try to find a fanfic where the MC/reader isn't a white tiny woman, who for some reason isn't capable of intelligent thoughts and just keeps crying and following the ML/romantic interest like she is a child who keeps needing saving and crying
She is also either tiny and small or "chubby" (it's not chubby it's literally just the same white girl with huge breasts and big ass and thighs)
summary: the summer heat is unbearable, but kaeya knows how to cool off.
word count: 2.1k
tags: afab!reader (they/them pronouns used); modern au (visions still exist); pwp; temperature play; unprotected piv; mutual masturbation; creampie; cum eating; oral (reader receiving); fingering.
a/n: found this in my drafts from FOUR YEARS AGO. it shows. i don't even write for genshin anymore lol but i figured i’d set this one free from wip prison <3
Laying in a pool of your own sweat is not how you planned to spend your summer, but alas, the weather is not on your side. To make things worse, your air conditioner conveniently broke the day before, leaving you to cook in your house like a rotisserie chicken. Not ideal.
As you’re splayed out on the floor wallowing in your frustrations, a familiar sound of footsteps appears above you. “Are you really laying on the floor?”
You pick your head up to glare at the man towering over you, your loving boyfriend who clearly has no sympathy for your pain. “Yes I am, Kaeya. Not all of us have Cryo Visions to dispel the heat,” you grumble.
Kaeya only laughs, kneeling before you. “Now now, don’t take your anger out on me. I brought you some water — extra cold.”
He holds out a glass of ice water for you to take, which you readily accept. As you take a sip, you move to sit cross legged on the floor. “How long until the repair guy gets here?” You wonder impatiently. “I’m about to boil to death over here.”
Your boyfriend lounges on the couch. “It’ll be at least another hour. You can hang on until then.”
“Uh, maybe you can, but I can’t. Look, the ice in my cup is already melted!” You exclaim, shaking the glass in front of him. Kaeya reaches out and touches the edge of the cup, rejuvenating the ice with his Vision. The death glare you send him speaks volumes.
Kaeya sighs, unbuttoning his shirt whilst you send him dirty looks. “This heat isn’t great for either of us, you know. Besides, if you want to cool down, get up here.”
You raise a questioning eyebrow, your gaze tracing over his now exposed chest. The sweat that layers his skin makes the muscles appear more defined in the light, and you can’t say the view isn’t doing something for you. Unfortunately, the thought of making skin-to-skin contact right now feels disgusting. “Why would I want to sit next to you when it’s hot?”
Kaeya stares at you dumbfoundedly. “Did it not cross your mind that I could use my Vision to cool you off, too?”
You stare in silence. Kaeya stares back. You blink twice. Slowly, abashed, you mutter, “No…”
He chuckles, visibly fighting the urge to tease you, and gestures for you to join him. You try to sit at his side, but Kaeya is quick to pull you into his lap. You cringe when your thighs initially make contact with the bare skin of his legs, but soon enough, you start to feel colder. Elated by this newfound source of cooling, you lean your head on your boyfriend’s shoulder and sigh. “I can’t believe you didn’t mention this earlier.”
Kaeya hums, wrapping an arm around you while the other holds onto your thigh. You shiver at the cold emitting from his hands. “I thought you were just being stubborn as usual,” he muses. His hands trace shapes into your skin, easing your previous heat-induced anger. “Is this better?”
“Mm-hm,” you agree, shifting closer to him. You barely register the light sigh that escapes him when you shift over the space between his legs.
Kaeya kisses your forehead, cold breath fanning your skin. “You know… there are other ways to cool down,” he says slowly. His hand on your thigh inches up, toying with the edge of your shorts, which are riding up high enough to give a peek of your undergarments.
You feign obliviousness, tugging at his collar. “Oh? What do you suggest?”
You barely move around in his lap, but it’s enough to make Kaeya’s breath hitch. His hand grips your thigh a little harder. “I have some ideas,” he whispers against your lips, and your eyes have already fluttered closed. You lean in to kiss him and he’s eager to taste you, the blunt end of his nails digging into your plush skin. The collar of his shirt wrinkles under your fist as you tug him closer, desperate to close as much distance as physically possible.
Kaeya’s mouth moves against yours fervently, his breath refreshingly cool. You kiss him hungrily, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth, and he has the audacity to laugh. “That’s new,” he comments, but your brain is so clouded by him that you ignore it and pull him back to you with a light tug of his hair. He groans into the kiss, his mouth opening enough for you to slip your tongue in — just enough to ask, silently, if that’s alright — and he gladly welcomes you to do so.
The hand that’s holding your waist is beginning to push your tank top up, slipping beneath the fabric so you can feel the cold against your skin. You instinctively press your chest closer to his, brushing against the growing bulge between his legs at the same moment.
You remove the hand that was gripping his collar so you can palm the tent in his shorts. Kaeya whines, his breathing becoming erratic as you relieve some of the tension. He moves his hips as much as he can manage to create friction, groaning against your lips. Kaeya lifts you off of his lap so you can help him shrug off his shorts and his boxers, his erection exposed for you.
You test the waters, running your thumb over the tip and tracing the veins that protrude from the sides. Kaeya bucks into your hand uselessly, sighing at your actions. “You’re cruel,” he whimpers.
“You can hang on,” you tease, mocking his earlier words to you. You move to straddle one of his legs, sitting on his thigh. With a quick spit into your hand, you begin to stroke him slowly, watching his cock twitch in your hand.
Kaeya sighs, allowing his hand to rest on your knee. Your hand forms a fist around his cock and you pump it, leaning over to spit on the tip. Your boyfriend whines, bucking into your hand. His eyes flutter shut and his head is thrown back against the couch, satisfied little noises escaping him all the while.
Briefly releasing his cock, you reach down to his balls, rubbing your thumb over them and applying pressure. He groans, nails scraping your leg, and you kiss his shoulder.
Taking his cock again, you start moving your hand faster, watching the pre-cum dribble down the sides of his length. You tease the tip, allowing more of the fluid to spread over his cock. Kaeya bites back a loud moan when your hand pumps at a quickened pace, his senses overloaded with pleasure.
You start humping his thigh, creating friction for yourself, while Kaeya loses himself in the grip of your hand. You watch as his stomach begins to tense and you encourage him with a sweet, “Go ahead, baby.”
Kaeya ruts into your hand as cum spurts from his cock, thick and creamy white. You keep stroking him even as his cum covers your hand and drips onto his stomach, pooling at the base of his cock. You keep stroking to hear the pretty whines your boyfriend makes, his cheeks darkened and his cock still twitching in your skillful hand. When you’ve milked him completely, you suck the cum from your fingers while he watches in complete awe. You lick up your arm where some of his cum ran down towards your elbow, and he pulls you in for a quick kiss. You don’t notice that you’re warming up again until his lips meet yours and cool you back down.
Kaeya savors the moment, kissing you deep and slow, only parting to let you catch your breath. His hand taps your thigh to get your attention. “Lay down,” he commands, and you obey. He positions a pillow behind your head and lets you get comfortable before he tugs your clothes off and settles between your legs.
Kaeya caresses you, kissing up and down your inner thighs, and your heart flutters in your chest. He moves back up to kiss your stomach once, then down again as he hovers over your cunt. He kisses it too, before licking a stripe down the center that makes you shudder. His tongue is cold, and the feeling of it sliding between your folds sends an instant jolt of pleasure through you.
Carefully, Kaeya slips his tongue into you, swirling inside of your hole as you try to stop yourself from bucking against his face. Your hand grips his hair to stabilize yourself, fighting to remain sane as his tongue works you towards an orgasm. You know you’re already dripping, but the way Kaeya languidly devours you like you’re a meal he has to savor makes you melt.
When he slips a finger inside to help you reach your climax faster, it’s over for you. The cold digit is the last straw that makes you release without warning, your cum pouring down his chin and lathering his fingers. He continues to eat you out anyway, sucking on your clit and begging you to cum again. You don’t think you can, not so quickly, but your body betrays you. Kaeya slurps the cum from your dripping cunt and kisses your thighs again, before lifting his head. His chin is glistening from the cum that spilled over his face, but he wipes it off with the back of his hand and lets his hips settle next to yours. His erection is back, standing against his stomach, waiting for you to give him the go ahead to put it inside. “Is this okay?” he asks.
“Of course,” you confirm, and that’s all he needs. Kaeya holds your legs up so you can wrap them around his waist as he aligns himself with your entrance. The head of his cock sweeps over your folds before slipping inside, slowly stretching you out on his length inch by inch. You’re surprised once more by the change in temperature — his cock cools your insides, making them pulse instinctively around him. The immediate onslaught of pleasure is almost overwhelming, but Kaeya brings you back with a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s take it easy, okay?”
You nod in agreement, pulling him down to kiss you properly, and he takes the opportunity to gently pull back before sliding his cock back in. You sigh, overcome by the sensation of your walls gripping his length.
Kaeya sets an easy pace, rocking his hips against yours and kissing your lips, your neck, your shoulder — anywhere he could reach. You let your hands settle against his back, only holding tight when his cock is fully sheathed inside of your cunt.
After enough time getting slowly pierced by Kaeya’s length, you ask him to pick things up. He enthusiastically obliges, sighing pleasurably when he slides through your tight cunt a bit faster. You moan, excited by the new pace and his skin slapping against yours. You dig your nails into his back a little more, whimpering when his balls clap into you. The pleasure only increases when Kaeya takes hold of your legs and presses them against your body. He adjusts to the new angle and grins when you let out a noise of satisfaction, his cock hitting you just right. He deepens his thrusts, eager to bury himself as far inside as he can manage. Cold sweat runs down his skin as he fucks you harder, his cock twitching as he nears his climax.
You hold him tighter, willing your walls to suck him in until he can spill his cum inside you. With a groan above you, Kaeya feels his cock suddenly pulse within your walls. His hands grip you hard enough to leave marks, shoving his cock further into your cunt, releasing his thick cum as you moan.
Thankfully, your cunt tightens again, leaving Kaeya to fuck you recklessly through his orgasm as you build up to your own climax. When he slams his cock into you particularly deep, you finally release, squirting cum all down his length, which is still buried inside you. Even though you’re both overstimulated, Kaeya can’t stop himself from continuing to fuck you like his life depends on it. He holds your hips higher and rams into you, your moans like music to his ears. Your boyfriend watches himself slam in and out of your pretty cunt, your collective release forming a ring of white at the base. He manages to drag one last orgasm out of you before emptying his final drops of cum into your abused cunt.
Kaeya holds you against him, allowing you both to catch your breath while he softens inside you. Even then, he doesn’t move out of you, holding your exhausted bodies together while using his Vision to cool off.
Suddenly the doorbell rings, a voice calling out from behind the door: “Hello, I’m here to fix the air conditioner?”
You exchange a look with Kaeya, muttering in unison: “Shit.”
seeing myself in the tags when i’m trying to find something to read at night is so funny tbh. like no no trust me tumblr i know this one. in fact i was there when it was written
i open my draft for the final chapter of eternal sunshine. i get violently nauseous and teary-eyed. i close my draft for the final chapter of eternal sunshine.
there’s a certain irony to being told by my professor that i have excellent syntax and then not a day later i post smut. i’m using my powers for good, clearly
i wish the concept of / and & was more widely used across tumblr fics bcus sometimes i see stuff like “(character) x sibling!reader” and i have to question if you guys are going the incest route or the platonic route for today
character/character = romantic and/or sexual pairing
character & character = familial and/or platonic pairing
summary: ryland finds himself in bed with you. he's a little out of practice.
word count: 2.2k
tags: gn!reader + vague anatomy; established relationship; smut (pwp, masturbation, anal, light body worship, praise, talkative!ryland); takes place before phm events (no spoilers!).
a/n: tried to make this as neutral as possible bcus we ALL deserve to get freaky with this nerd <3
“Okay, so, for starters — since we’re here and all — I would just like to say that it’s been about five or so years since I’ve, you know… Done the devil’s tango, if you will. Just to warn you. No pressure.”
Ryland’s word vomit arrives as gracefully as a plane crash, right after you have both stripped down to nothing and settled beneath the sheets of your queen-sized bed (a delightful upgrade from Ryland’s springy, busted twin bed back at his apartment). He’s been sweating bullets for the last hour of your impromptu make out session, and he’s been hard for about eighty percent of that time. You’ve lost count of how many times he groaned in the past twenty minutes from accidentally nudging his erection against your thigh.
Needless to say, you already figured he was a little out of practice.
“That’s fine,” you murmur from below, your head cushioned by a pillow. “I mean, the last time I slept with anyone was…” You pause, brows furrowed in thought. Ryland watches your hands leave his hair only to start counting on your fingers, muttering under your breath, until you give up, settling on, “It’s been a while for me, too.”
Ryland sighs in relief, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Good.” Then, reflexively, his head pops back up. “I mean— Not good. Sorry. That was very selfish of me. You deserve to have— you should get to, you know— bed someone as you wish. Make love. Get frisky. Et cetera. I mean, look at you, how could anyone not—? Well. Anyway… that must have been rough.”
A snort escapes you at Ryland’s inability to use the word ‘sex.’ And did he… speak in a British accent for a moment there? It’s a bit unclear what dialect he was going for.
Regardless of his awkward, sporadic behavior and ceaseless talking, you’re familiar enough with this song and dance that you don’t hesitate to return your fingers to his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. The action, as per usual, makes him melt like putty in your hands.
“Yeah, let’s maybe not get into the humiliating details,” you muse, tugging him down for a chaste kiss. He moans into your mouth, his body sagging atop yours. He tries to nod in response to your words, but his lips are still smushed against yours. Not to mention his glasses are still hanging on for dear life and poking your cheek. You gently push him away, remove them, and set them on your nightstand; Ryland flashes a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “You know me. Forgot I was wearing them.”
“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly, tugging him down again. “Shut up, handsome.”
Ryland kisses you like he’s been starving for it, panting against your mouth from the effort it takes to focus on just this moment. He doesn’t want to start humping you like a dog in heat, even though he sure feels like one right about now. He gets dizzy off your shared breath, nudging his nose against yours between heated kisses. His hands are shaking — partially from holding himself up, but mostly because he’s scared to touch you. All he keeps thinking about, even now, is how mortifying it would be if he disappointed you even a little bit. He’s out of practice and definitely way too old to be floundering over a kiss, but being in your bed after months of wet dreams and sighing your name into his pillow is a step he didn’t think he’d ever take. Fortunately for him, you were brave enough to finally bring it up and drag him into your bed.
“You can touch me,” you mumble against his mouth, noting his hesitation.
“Right.” Ryland swallows. His lips stray to the corner of your mouth, then further to your jawline. He hides his face there, heart hammering against his rib cage, to ask, “Where?”
Although Ryland drudges up a myriad of self-deprecating thoughts upon asking, you happen to find the question terribly sexy.
“I’ll show you,” you mutter, already searching for his hands. You guide them over your body, letting his palms splay across your bare skin. His breath catches. Ryland reels his head back to get a good look at you while his hands explore — kneading at mounds of flesh, lightly pinching your nipples, caressing the curves and dips of your body. He’s meticulous in his search to find out exactly what makes you tick — a scientist after your own heart.
His cock is leaking against your thigh. It’s been in such a state for nearly an hour now; Ryland hasn’t quite found the courage to give himself to you yet. Hell, he hasn’t even dared to grind against you for fear that he’ll empty himself all over your stomach by accident.
Eventually, you turn on your side, shuffling around on your bed. Ryland watches with a growing flush as you get into position, taking his hand into your own and leading it to settle between your thighs. “Here,” you finally murmur, patient as a saint. Ryland’s heart nearly stops altogether when you guide him to where you’ve been aching just as badly as him. He drags the tips of his fingers over your arousal — wet, warm, and patiently waiting for him to get his shit together.
“Good God,” he whines, his voice cracking. Your hips jerk upward when he applies pressure, stimulating your sensitive nerves; he nearly loses all composure the second you moan in response.
“Ryland,” you whisper, squirming beneath him. You’re torn between jerking your hips forward or holding them in place; your body can’t seem to decide which is more appealing.
“Uh-huh?” He can’t rip his eyes off your body, slack jawed as he strokes your leaking heat. Ryland’s hand suddenly redirects, fingers slipping into his mouth — his tongue swirls around them, messily wetting the digits — before traversing around your hip. He watches his finger gently prod at your rear, slowly slipping into you. Your body gives in with ease, and he marvels at your sharp breaths and sighs when he pumps his finger in and out — slowly, curling just so, angling his hand to let you receive another digit.
Your throat bobs when you swallow, chest heaving. With a shaking hand, you reach behind you to touch Ryland’s chin. With his attention caught, you tug him closer, pulling him into your orbit. He falls into it without hesitation, allowing you to bring him in for a slow, heady kiss whilst he continues to work you open.
If you weren’t already as worked up as you are, you wouldn’t mind staying like this for a few more hours. He’s warm and tender, expertly balancing his weight above you. For all his fumbling up to this point, Ryland has managed to far exceed your expectations — and, surprisingly, even his own. Not bad for a couple of out of practice losers.
“Ry,” you sigh into your pillow, closing your eyes to focus on him. “You can— I’m good, if you want to… to…” You trail off, too busy jerking your hips back to really finish your thought.
Ryland gets the gist of it. In response to your invitation, the man shifts his hips forward, pressing his flushed cock against your ass. He eases his way in, a ragged groan escaping him. You can feel him panting against your cheek as he hovers behind you, working his way inside your rear, slowly filling you up. Ryland bites his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut. He sinks further into you, fisting the sheets as he bottoms out.
“Fuck,” he sighs, hanging his head low enough that his nose touches your cheek. “Fuck. That’s good. You’re— Jesus, you’re perfect, so fucking…” He trails off, muttering a long, unintelligible string of curses beneath his breath. Ryland doesn’t dare to move until your hips cant backwards, eager for friction, wanting for more. He responds in kind, slowly reeling his hips back before swaying into your orbit. The roll of his hips is heavenly; you moan, reaching behind you. Your hands flail around, searching for his thigh, desperate to pull him in for every deep, languid thrust that fills you.
“So tight,” he mutters once his forehead drops to the crook of your neck. “So, so good. God, you’re good.” His body is flush to yours, focused less on going deep and more on simply feeling you all over him. Ryland’s hands start to wander of their own accord, gripping your hips to help you rock against him, locking your sweaty bodies into a desperate rhythm.
When his thrusts start to become increasingly heavy, you remove your hand from his thigh to slip your hand between your legs. He doesn’t notice at first, not until you start to whine a bit from the stimulation.
Ryland picks his head up to look at you before averting his gaze downward. He licks his lips, eyes darkened to a sultry expression.
“Let me,” he boldly insists, already sliding a hand down to meet yours. His hand replaces yours; you keep it there, hovering over his for guidance, but Ryland already seems to have you figured out. The pads of his fingers press against the most sensitive parts of you, getting you off whilst his hips rock into yours. You gasp, clutching his wrist and dropping your mouth open in a perpetual moan.
“There? You like that?” Ryland asks huskily, panting against your ear with barely-there composure. You wonder if he knows how attractive he is at this moment — so unlike his usual self. More confident, more sure of his actions.
Regardless of whether he realizes how well he’s doing or not, you nod, moaning wantonly. “Yes, yes. Right there.”
You’re both a breathy, sweaty mesh of limbs, clinging to each other and chasing a high that seems increasingly within reach. Ryland is further ahead of the curve than you are, whining against your neck.
“I’m almost— Fuck, you feel amazing— Can I come inside you? I can’t, I can’t pull out… Too tight, I’m gonna lose it.”
His rambling is met with a fervent nod. As your legs kick against the sheets, Ryland pants like a dog, fucking into you sporadically. He spills his seed — hot and heavy — and groans so loud you jolt in surprise. The sound causes your muscles to squeeze around him; you’re nearing the edge now, barely hanging on.
Ryland remembers to stimulate your sex again, pushing himself up enough to slip his hand where it needs to be. He gets you off with quick, brutal force to your nerves, and you pulse against his deft hand as your orgasm hits.
Even though you’ve both cum already, Ryland’s hips don’t stop. He continues to bury himself inside you — raggedly working himself through the lasting remains of his release — while he sputters under his breath.
“Could stay here all day,” he mumbles. “Perfect, best I’ve ever had. Fuck, I can’t wait to make you cum again, babe. Fill you ‘til you’re dripping. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—”
If you weren’t so sensitive, you’d probably roll your eyes and laugh at his slurred prayer.
By the end of it, when Ryland has finally had his fill of you, he pulls out and fully drops his weight upon yours, too spent to keep himself upright. You release an oomph when he lays on you, squeezing the breath from your lungs.
“Ry—” You start, already nudging him off of you.
He groans, burying his face against your neck. From his place on your chest, you can see that the tips of his ears are bright red. He mumbles something that you can’t decipher; you poke his ribs.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
Ryland groans again, flustered and shaking his head. “Sorry. Sorry. Dunno what that was. Who even says that kind of stuff? Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
With a snort, you ruffle his already-messy hair, raking your nails over his scalp. “What are you sorry for? I liked it.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You pity me,” he whines. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
You can’t help but scoff at that, yanking at a lock of his hair. Ryland yelps, turning his head to look at you.
“Who do you think I am, huh?” You poke his cheek, brow raised. “Don’t be silly. Enjoy the moment for once, won’t you?”
Ryland opens his mouth to argue, but — after a beat of consideration — he closes it. He props his chin on your shoulder, sighing through his nose.
“You are, as always, correct,” he mutters, looking at you with all the adoration a man can offer.
“Exactly.” You smile, fixing his hair back into place. It springs right back up, perpetually defying gravity. Your head tilts, searching his expression. “You know, you’re selling yourself short. That was really good for five years out of practice.”
Ryland perks up. “Really?”
“Really.”
The man cracks a smile, shifting to nuzzle his scratchy, stubbled cheek against your shoulder. “Well, you’ve only seen a fraction of my power.”
“Oh?” You laugh at the ridiculous, overly-serious tone he takes. “Do share more.”
“Give me ten minutes, baby, and I’ll rock your world.”
Advice: Always trust a scientist to deliver thorough results.
the fact that “dead dove; do not eat” comes from an arrested development episode is so funny to me. imagine my surprise when i watched that episode for the first time and saw my beloved controversial ao3 tag mixed up in there
tags: gn!hunter!reader; bisexual!dean; mtf!sam; minor mentions of homophobia/transphobia
a/n: in my world they are sisters. if anyone wants more fem!winchesters pls send a req!! i would give up my firstborn child for them!!!
DEAN WINCHESTER:
Her name is Deanna but she likes to go by “Dean” because she thinks it sounds cooler. John always calls her by her full name — or “Dee” on occasion — but Dean never argues it. What their father says goes, after all. Sam is one of the few people who actually calls her “Dean” like she prefers.
Dean has a complicated relationship with femininity since she never got to do traditionally girly things as a kid; overall, she tends to be pretty masculine or androgynous. She never got to play with Barbies or dress up or put on make up — her “toy” was a rifle, her outfit only ever consisted of the same dirty boots and tattered flannels, and she never learned how to doll herself up. Sometimes she picks up those magazines with the pretty models on the cover and tries to imagine her face on their body; she mostly just ends up feeling weird and guilty over it, like even imagining something like that for herself is wrong.
Dean’s only real agency is over her hair. John never knew what to do with it — it was always so long and silky, even when the Winchesters spent days on the road without a proper wash. Dean had to take it upon herself to learn how to braid her own hair, how to keep it out of the way on hunts; her hair is her pride and joy. (It also makes her look so much like Mary that John can’t stomach it sometimes.) She probably has to cut it at some point when it gets caught or grabbed on a mission; she cries about it alone in a corner somewhere after John chops it off.
Dean doesn’t get to play around with traditional femininity until she’s an adult. John starts sending her out for hunts on her own, and she soars with that little bit of freedom; she buys a dress and goes out to a bar alone (with a fake ID, of course), and her first time putting on make up is when one of the drunk girls in the bathroom says she would look so pretty with a little mascara and some lipstick. Ironically, this is also the first time she comes to terms with the fact that she is most definitely not straight — she loves the attention too much to be heterosexual.
She never officially comes out to her father. John is at the halfway point between knowing his daughter is different and being willfully ignorant of the truth — so long as she stays loyal to her family and does her job like a good little soldier, John doesn’t dare to question it, and Dean never brings it up.
She meets you on a hunt — you’re being tormented by a particularly nasty spirit, and it’s up to Dean and her father to save you. John is none the wiser when he sees his daughter hanging out with you. It makes sense, really — you’re about the same age, and Dean is a social butterfly. She gets you out of your head, reassuring you that everything will be alright, to stick beside her in case anything goes wrong. Who are you to deny a strong, beautiful woman with arms like that?
By this point, Dean has been with a handful of people — men, women, and everything in between — but you’re of the odd few that she hated to part with. Cassie was Dean’s first love (and her first real girlfriend), but where Cassie couldn’t bear to lead a life with a hunter, you’re more than eager to ditch everything should Dean say the word. It scares her, your loyalty. She gently turns you down — as gently as she can, anyway. Leaving you breaks her heart and yours.
You meet again years later when Dean returns with Sam to your town. Another spirit, another case to solve — and you just so happen to be right in the middle of things again. This time, you’re hunting, too — after Dean left, you picked it up in hopes of finding her. You never did get to see her again, but you found out you weren’t half bad at hunting given all the ghostly shit you went through in the past. Dean is impressed, and a little shy to admit that she missed you.
When Sam heads to the library to do some research, it leaves you alone with Dean. She’s antsy without her sister to act as a buffer between you two, and you notice; you tease her for it. She laughs a bit. Unfortunately, you never quite got over her, but soon enough, she makes it clear that she didn’t get over you either.
Dean takes you to bed, and after more pillow talk than she usually offers her bedmates, she asks you to stick around for a while. “Just until we find out what’s wrong with Sammy,” she insists, even though it’s more than that. As if you’d ever let her slip away from you again.
SAM WINCHESTER:
Sam has always looked up to her big sister. She stuck by Dean since birth, always clinging to her more than their father. Sam just thinks she’s so cool and pretty in a way that Sam could never be. She’s especially jealous of her sister’s hair, which leads to Sam always growing it out. The most she can manage is getting it down to her shoulders before John winds up making a comment about how “His hair is getting too long” and “He’s starting to look like a girl.” Sam doesn’t mind looking like a girl, though — but of course, she doesn’t realize what that means until much later in life. Instead, she sniffles when her dad chops her hair away while Dean tries to reassure her little brother that it’ll grow back soon enough.
Sam loves the toy section at the store. Even though John only ever takes his kids out to the store strictly for essentials, Sam always manages to convince her big sister to let her look around. Dean groans, but she caves easily — she makes up some excuse to their dad about getting herself some tampons only to drag her little sibling to the toys. Sam doesn’t care for the monster trucks and nerf guns, though — she gravitates to the pretty Barbie dolls and the ponies. Since Dean never got to indulge in many toys as a kid, she makes a point to buy something for Sam — when Sam wants a Barbie, Dean doesn’t bat an eye.
Even though Dean is far from girly herself, Sam likes to borrow her clothes. She’s always delighted to get her hand-me-downs. She likes to play with her sister’s hair, too, practicing how to braid — which becomes a necessity after a mission in which Dean breaks her arm. Sam is all too happy to step up for her sister; and when Sam grows her hair out, she begs Dean to braid hers in return.
Sam doesn’t like how much she starts to look like her father as she gets older. It isn’t until she’s in college that she starts to realize why she’s so different. When she first starts dating Jess, Sam is still guy-Sam, still waiting to hatch out of her shell. Jess is the one to point out that Sam is different from other guys she’s dated — Sam’s just not manly in a traditional sense. Sam gets along better with other women, fits into their circles and conversations and understands them in a way that a typical guy wouldn’t get. It takes a few conversations about this before Jess finally asks: “Do you think you might be a girl?”
Jess is cool about it — she doesn’t leave Sam, doesn’t treat her any different than she ever has. Jess is his first love, the first person to see her for who she really is and not be afraid of it or avoid the topic like the plague. Sam starts to transition, but of course, she doesn’t tell Dean or John about it — partly because she doesn’t want anything to do with being a hunter, but also because she’s not sure how they’d react.
When Dean eventually reappears in Sam’s life, they don’t mention the obvious right off the bat. It isn’t until an anxious car ride later that Sam finally asks why Dean hasn’t said anything at all about her appearance — years of estrogen shaping her to look so much like their mother — and Dean just sighs: “We’ve always kept an eye on you, Sammy.”
You’re a hunter. When Sam and Dean need some extra help on a case, they call on you (courtesy of their father’s contacts via his journal) to help them. Dean notices right away that you and Sam get along well — a little too well. Dean teases her sister every time they’re alone, wearing that stupid smug grin and elbowing her every time your eyes linger for a second too long. Sam is hesitant to start anything; she’s still mourning Jess, still haunted by nightmares of her when she tries to sleep at night. The visions aren’t helping, either — how could she possibly be with someone when she’s halfway to getting locked up in a psych ward forever?
Despite all her insecurities, you’re patient. You wind up sticking with Sam and Dean for longer than anticipated; you round out the sisters, temper them when emotions get too high, butt in when they fight over something stupid. And, of course, you’re always there to offer Sam a shoulder to cry on when she’s suffering from her powers or the weight of the world.
When Sam finally manages to make a move on you, she’s a bundle of nerves, hands shaking as she cups your face to kiss you goodnight after a diner date. For once, she has a good night’s sleep knowing you’ll still be there in the morning.
