ׂ 𓈒 ⭑ vamps n banshees. iwtv. sinners. hannibal. music. horror. film. superman. lion kaminski’s wife. strawberry shortcake. writing. dystopian. spiderman. december bby. louis lovebot. vanilla cashmere. pink. claudia defender. night owl. baby blue. portal 222. ᝰ.ᐟ
𝐢𝐢. ℒatest. dangerous information (j.cook). dirty fighting (r.goode). after the bell (l. kaminski). the arrangement (p.sumner). starving thing (remmick). just you (l.kaminski). fed by your hand (remmick). winner takes you (l.kaminski). thatorchia (remmick). red tease (remmick). ain’t nothin’ sweet (r.goode)
Summary: After the ship's surgeon almost freezes to death in the icy waters of the North, he is left weak and sickly in his cabin. Deemed hardly fit to attend to his duties of caring for others, Captain Brownlee tasks you with warming him up by any means necessary.
You have a few ideas in mind.
Rating: Explicit (18+ Minors Do Not Interact!)
Pairing: CabinBoy!male!reader x Patrick Sumner
Word Count: 3.8k
Tags: authority kink (dom/sub dynamics), oral (m!recieving), p in a, fingering, set in the 1850s-ish, porn without plot/porn with feelings, praise kink (some degradation sprinkled in there), dirty talk, teasing, vocal!Sumner, dom!Sumner (we get there), bottom!reader
A/N: This is Patrick Sumner grower not shower propaganda. Also, Author apologizes for any historical or medical inaccuracies in her smut fic. 😭
Credits: Divider (@strangergraphics) Images (here and here) Title (here feathergraphy2)
TAGLIST: @theabhartachsbride (let me know if you would like to be on my taglist or would like to be tagged for specific writing from me!)
Knock, knock, knock. You gave a light rap on the surgeon’s cabin door.
“Doctor? Your meal’s ready for you, sir.” Your ear was pressed up against the wood to listen for any signs of life, but in turn it was silent.
“In.” Came his raspy reply, weak from refraining to speak. He was still recovering from the physical toll of tumbling into the icy waters. The surgeon had come back a shell of himself—limp as a doll and half dead. Who knew someone could survive something like that? Let alone keep the use of all their limbs. A God-given miracle, it was. But as the door creaked on its hinges and you spotted his curled form upon the bed, the ship’s surgeon still appeared as if he had died that day in the water.
Bundled in a threadbare blanket, cheeks pink with blood, and shivering, Patrick Sumner looked less like the educated, dignified doctor he liked to seem and more like a barn mouse in winter.
You stepped in and closed the door behind you, making sure it clicked shut.
You balanced his rations over to his bedside: salted caribou with ship biscuits and water. It was hardly the kind of meal you imagined he had partaken in during university in London, but Sumner did not complain. In fact, he ate with barely restrained enthusiasm, cutting the meat sloppily and almost missing his mouth with the fork.
“Captain Brownlee sent me,” you spoke up. “He was worried about your condition.”
His hands were shaking; so much so, a drop of water spilled when he lifted the glass.
“…Worried you would be unable to do your duties if the need arises.”
Sumner shook his head, but you could see the way he trembled with each breath, the way the tip of his nose blushed a slight pink.
“Are you still cold, sir?” you asked. “I can fetch a heavier blanket for you, if you wish it.”
It clearly embarrassed him—to be under this level of care. You decided you quite liked the sight of his down turned lashes and abashed gaze.
“No, thank you, lad,” he said. “My perceived temperature is likely only psychosomatic now.”
You waited, and he explained himself. “My body has recovered, but my mind still believes it is withstanding the cold. However, I assure you my capability as a surgeon is perfectly sound. I’m sure the Captain will be satisfied with my word, and if he isn’t, you have my permission to direct him to me.” He sighed, his countenance heavy. “You may take your leave now. As you can see I’m not primed for visitors at the moment.”
You hesitated. Frowned. Disappointed that you were being shooed away before you could do what you came here to do.
“…Unless you are in need of something else? Is something ailing you?” he asked, innocent of your desires.
“Yes, I do need something,” you said lightly, evaluating his form and finding him terribly handsome, even his current state couldn’t undermine the attractive set of his jaw or the expressive nature of his round, faience-glazed eyes—maybe, you admitted, his frailness only enticed you more.
“Alright then,” he sighed, bracing himself for an examination, “Can you grab the brown bottle from my tincture cabinet and bring it here for me, please? It’s the one with the square label and large lettering on the front. Then wait and allow me to take a look at you.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” You took a deliberate step forward, pushing his food to the side. Forcing him to look up at you. Wide-eyed. “But I can’t do that. It’s laudanum, yes? I’ve been told you can’t… perform under its influence.”
He swallowed, catching your attention on his adam’s apple beautifully curved in his throat.
“I don’t know who told you that,” he said slowly, “but I am perfectly able to do an examination while taking it. My faculties will be fine, I assure you.”
“No, not for an examination.” Never breaking eye contact, you got down on one knee and then the other. Sumner watched you in realization while your hands settled on the wool of his trousers. “For this.”
“Oh,” he breathed.
Your hands wandered closer, just suggesting. The rustle of skin on fabric a loud echo in your ears. “Let me take care of you, sir. I think it’ll help.” You tilted your head up and the sight—God the sight—of you under him seemed to undo something tight and wound right in his chest.
“You’re serious,” he muttered. Disbelieving, shocked, and… curious, all at once.
“Very.”
As if in a trance he slipped the suspenders off his shoulders. “Are you sure, lad? I’m not a… I’m not a woman, you know.”
“Yes,” you replied. You undid the buttons on his trousers, letting your fingers linger on the place where his abdomen dipped into something lower. “Maybe the polite society you’re used to would have reservations, but here? We are far from polite society. Whalers are more of the indulgent sort—rougher, cruder.” You inched closer, spreading his thighs to make room for you. “Use me. I’ll keep you warm, plenty warm.” You felt him through his briefs, listening to his sharp intake of breath, and smiled.
Thumb running in small circles, he twitched in your hand. Sensitive. Impatient. You pushed the thin fabric out of the way and exposed him completely. His cock was pink and leaking, begging to be touched. Sumner gasped when your parted lips kissed the head, one of his hands coming to hold your shoulder for stability.
You licked up to the tip before taking him completely in your mouth. Hot warm walls enveloped him, just holding him there as sweet whimpers escaped his lips.
“Ah, by God, that’s—”
You backed off until only the tip remained. The taste of salt from his precome rested heavy on your tongue as you circled the head, taking extra care to savor the tremble of his body when you licked over the slit. With a tad more pressure, you sucked him down again, your nose meeting the hair at the base.
“Hmph!—” came your muffled cry. As his cock hardened, he grew almost double in your mouth. At first, you had taken him easily, but now? Blood rushed down to his manhood until it filled you on it. Choked you on it, reaching the ring of your throat. His shaft was thick and pulsing, the veins running in fat, crooked lines down your tongue.
“Good, good boy. Take what I give you… That’s it. Doing so well for me.” His fingers threaded through your hair, urging you to move.
And you did. Spit leaving his cock wet as you bobbed your head, letting his noises guide your motion. Thoughtless and needy, his hips canted up into your mouth, desperate to keep himself in your warmth as much as possible. You gripped his thigh, concentrating on breathing through your nose. Looking up, your eyes met his. And he couldn’t help but whine at the sight of your lips wrapped around him—how you were trying so so hard to please him. It felt good. Being served, being looked at like he was the only thing that mattered in this God-forsaken sea. Deliberately, you pushed yourself down as far as you could go on the delicate curve of his shaft—never breaking his gaze—and swallowed.
“Fuck, please. I need to… I’m not going to last if you—Christ.”
Losing the last vestiges of his restraint, he gripped your head with both hands, taking care not to pull your hair. You allowed him to take control of the pace. Fucking up into your throat with messy thrusts.
It was intense. Your own cock ached at the sound of Sumner, usually so eloquent, being reduced to half-sentences and begging. You let him use you for his pleasure. Eyes squeezed shut and resisting the urge to gag as he pushed you down to take it all. It only made your arousal more feverish. How he reached so deep. How his heartbeat raced on your tongue. How he moaned so tenderly when you tightened the fit around him.
It wasn’t long before his rhythm staggered, hips stuttering as he held you there. Pulsing in your mouth as he spilled his cum down your throat. His thighs flexed and molded around you, unable to control his shuddering.
Slowly, he came down from his high. You swallowed around him and sucked, massaging his cock as he pulled out. His eyes were lidded, completely captivated by you.
“Stunning,” he whispered. “Made me feel so good, lad.”
You took deep breaths, face flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with saliva. His hands came up to cradle your face, fingers still cool to the touch, while his eyes scanned over you.
“Are you alright?” he asked gently, thumb rubbing over your cheekbone. “I wasn’t too beastly, was I?”
You looked up at him, a glimmer in your eye. “Sumner, sir.”
His grip tightened on your jaw.
“Please fuck me.”
A look of incredulity flashed over his face before he chuckled. “Devious, aren’t you… What am I going to do with you?”
Steadier, more sure, Sumner settled himself at the end of the bed, looking down at where you kneeled on the floor.
“Come up onto the berth,” he commanded. Tone low and authoritative, like how he would instruct a patient. Immediately, you followed his word. Climbing up into the bed and facing him, waiting. Wanting.
“Strip off your clothes. Shirt first.”
You pulled the hem up and over your head, bundling it up and tossing it to the side.
“Good,” he continued—dragging his eyes down from yours to your lips to the planes of your chest, “take off your trousers. Go on now.”
You liked him like this. Controlled. Focused. He was far different from the man you entered the room with, but it was a welcome change. From the moment Sumner stepped onto The Volunteer, he was clearly out of his element. You watched him get pushed around and played with by Drax, Cavendish, and even Captain Brownlee. Whaling was the prerogative for the men of the Volunteer. However, when it came to matters of the body, well, Sumner was much more comfortable.
You let his words guide your hand, unfastening your trousers and slipping them off. You did it unhurriedly, making it a show for the man watching.
“On your back. Remove your pants.” Sumner stalked closer. Appraising your body as you revealed it bit by bit.
His breathing grew deep when you took off the final piece of clothing. On display just for him now. Cock, hard, falling and leaking onto your stomach. His hand brushing from your thigh to your hip.
“Spread yourself for me,” Sumner murmured, “Let me see you…”
Laid bare and vulnerable, you hesitated. But ultimately you wanted to be good for him—needed to be good. For if you wavered now, you would break this fragile thing between the two of you. His confidence, so rare and beautiful, had to be cultivated, encouraged. If nothing else, you needed him to touch you, to finish what you started. Your knees fell open, offering up everything.
He settled himself squarely between your legs, pushing down on your inner thigh, to spread you even wider until your knee touched the mattress. Your muscles strained at the silent command but obeyed just the same.
“Look at you… handsome, indeed.” Sumner reached for his nightstand drawer to pull out a small jar of white-ish gel. He made sure you saw it; made sure your eyes were following him as he coated each finger generously. With a surgeon’s steadiness, he brought his hand down to circle your entrance, rubbing the hole gently.
“You’re just what I needed, lad. A sweet ambrosia. You make me feel more alive than I have in months.” Sumner leaned down to nip at your neck. You could feel the prickle of his beard. How he parted his lips to suck and lave his tongue over a spot that had you tilting your head for more.
But like a proper tease, he didn’t indulge you. Just played with your body infuriatingly slow. Mouthing at your sensitive neck before kissing deeper. One hand on your furled entrance pressing lightly at the rim, tricking you into thinking he’s going to enter at any moment before backing off. The other hand was a caress at your side; you heard him recite ‘serratus anterior… latissimus dorsi… external oblique…’ like a prayer as he trailed lower and lower.
“Please,” It was hard to keep your voice from breaking. You clenched around nothing. He was everywhere: on top of you, covering you, grazing your cock. He was everywhere except where you needed him most.
“Relax. So tense. You need my fingers that bad, huh? Want me to open you up? Stretch your tight, little hole until you only have thoughts of me and my cock fucking you open?”
“Yes,” you cried. Too wound up to be bashful.
You felt his mouth curve into a smile. “How could I refuse.”
He sat up, his palm landing on your hip to hold you still as a slick finger entered you cleanly.
You jerked. “C-Cold.” That strange gel helped ease the way, but combined with his cool hand it felt like dipping into an ice bath. He paid you no mind, leisurely pumping it in and out as your toes curled in discomfort.
“You’ll just have to warm them up, won’t you? Keep your promise for me, use your body heat now.”
You felt red bloom across your face, but you listened; hips rolling, once, twice, the slide becoming easier with each pass.
“There you go, you’ve got it,” he cooed. “A dedicated lubricant will not dry out quickly and it will help prevent any tears or abrasions. I would despise myself if you incurred an infection due to an act of my own recklessness.”
“Please, just—” As if on cue, Sumner curled his fingers in just the right spot. Making your hips jump even as he held you down, your knees folding in.
“Ah, ah. I’m talking. Hold on a bit longer. I’ll give you what you need soon,” he said, smug, terribly amused. Adding another finger he found the spot again with terrible precision. How could you forget his knowledge, his familiarity? At this point, you could only assume he understood your anatomy with an intimacy that would soon surpass your own. He spread those two fingers apart, stretching and scissoring you open between each thrust.
“Clean,” he remarked, “Did you prepare for this beforehand, lad?”
“Yes, sir,” you got out through clenched teeth, taut as a string under his hand.
“Oh? Experienced are we?”
“Not particula—Fuck!”—He switched his other hand from your hip to your cock, stroking from base to tip, his thumb pressing just under the head—“Y-Yes, sir.”
“So honest when I’ve got you like this,” he grinned, a playful but still gentle expression resting on his face. “Tell me, am I just another conquest to you? Is the pretty little cabin boy secretly a filthy cock slut for any whaler who can get his hands on him? I won’t shame you lad. Not when I’ve got you like this, not when you’re mine.” His hands did not relent, pushing in fast, squeezing up and down your cock. If he didn’t slow down you were going to finish far earlier than you wanted.
“N-No, I waited. Waited for a chance with you, Sumner. I-I’ve had no one else on The Volunteer, just wanted t-this. Just wanted you—no, wait, I need to last—” you pleaded.
He slowed; your earnestness took him off guard. No one had ever expressed desire like that for him before. “You’re something else entirely, my sweet ambrosia. I mean that.”
He removed his hands completely; and if you still had the capacity, you would’ve been humiliated by the broken whine you let out. Clawing into the sheets, hips rising off the mattress in search of any friction. Frustrated and relieved in the same breath, you gradually walked back from the edge. He didn’t let you wait too long, however. He was done teasing. You could see the shift. That heady, singular-focus in his eye, the way his breathing deepened, how he stroked himself slow—spreading more of that gel over his cock.
To him, you were the only thing he could see.
Sumner lined himself up and eased his cock in to the hilt. Your head dropped back in absolute pleasure. There wasn’t a single ounce of pain; you didn’t know it was possible for sex to have no pain. And he filled you exactly the way that you needed.
He had softened some after his release, but as he slowly started to move it wasn’t long before he hardened again. Feeling his cock fill out inside you was like an intoxicating drug.
Your legs wrapped around his back, heels digging in to the divots above his ass. “Faster, please. I need you.”
He gave in to your demand. Thrusts growing quick. His brow furrowed while sweat dripped down his temple. “Christ, you feel so good. F-fuck.” His expertly controlled patience from before vanished. Sumner gripped your waist with both hands and pulled you down to meet his hips hard in the middle. It was desperate. It was messy. It was absolutely perfect. He fucked your hole in a brutally quick rhythm, pounding into you like he needed it more than breathing.
He was devastatingly beautiful when he lost control.
You reached out to tangle your hand in his shirt, pulling him down to press his lips to yours. Swallowing down each gasp and moan he couldn’t help but make when you clenched around him. His hips rocking the two of you every time he slapped against your ass. His beard tickled your cheeks. His tongue plunging in to your mouth to claim every inch of you.
You only broke away when he found your prostate again, crying out at how intense it was. Even more so when he adjusted himself to hit it every time.
“R-Right there, yes, yes—” You couldn’t help but tense, squeezing rhythmically every time he angled himself just right. The feeling wrecked him. Fucking into you with more and more carelessness just to coax you into milking him more.
With his forehead against yours he said, “Let me make you feel good, love. Need to make you cum. Need to see your face flooded in ecstasy. God, let me give it to you.”
All you could do was give a shaky nod, not being able to trust your voice. Your fingers traveled up his nape and weaved through his hair, cradling his scalp and pulling him as close as he would come. He was all heat now. So deep inside you, hot and insistent and euphoric. Hitting all the right spots. You could feel your peak building through your whole body, from your toes up to your chest; the tension pulling you taut as a bow.
He was determined to make you cum first. He pulled back a bit, just enough to access your cock. His hand turning you into a live wire as he stroked you in time with his thrusts.
“Cum for me, love, I need to feel it. Need to watch you fucking shake on my cock.”
A bit more would tip you over—just a bit—more…Fuck!
“Sumner! I—” You cried out like an instinct.
Your back arched off the bed, desperate little sounds escaping you as ropes of cum surged from your cock covering Sumner’s hand as you pressed into it. White froth pooling onto your stomach. Waves of shudders rolled through you as you tightened around him. Milking him fiercely and pulling him over the edge with you. His frantic rhythm faltered, cock throbbing, before releasing inside you. Breath hitching as he screwed his eyes shut.
He drew out your orgasm; twisting his wrist to wring your cock for every last drop, slowly fucking his spend deeper into you, whispering praise into your ear:
“Good boy, such a good boy. You came so well for me, love. So, so stunning…”
Tears welled up in your eyes as it became almost too much, the intensity of it leaving you limp and panting.
Finally, he slowed to a stop, breathing just as hard as you. And you could swear your hearts were beating in time. He savored the feeling of holding you in his arms, still inside you, cock twitching in the aftershocks.
You tilted his chin up, kissing him as tenderly as you could manage. Trying to express all the things you couldn’t hope to say with words into the gesture. He responded in kind, deepening the kiss on your soft lips, tentatively offering you the small part of his heart he usually kept under key. Hidden in fear of the cruelty of betrayal, or the shame of weakness, or his future once again being stolen from him. But for this one moment, he felt safe.
Sumner put a hand on your cheek—no longer cold—and stroked the skin with his thumb.
In this one long yet fleeting minute, there was nothing else that mattered.
But nothing that mattered ever lasted.
You broke away. “I have to get back to the fo’c’sle, I’ve been gone too long.”
“Are you certain?” He looked almost pained. “Can’t you stay in the cabin a bit longer?”
You shifted, rolling the two of you over so you straddled his waist on top. His cock slipping out of you as you pinned him on his back.
“I’m sure. But I promise to return,” you said. With a cheeky smile you ground down on top of him to hear him groan.
“By God, you’re going to be the death of me, love.”
You lifted your hips and Sumner saw his cum dripping out of you down to his groin.
“Fuck.”
You brought two fingers down to spread your entrance making more drip out. Your face heating up when you saw how much there was. “’m so full, you filled me up so much, sir.”
Even spent as he was, you could feel his cock jump from under you. A whimper on the tip of his tongue. “You cannot say those kinds of things to me. I fear if you do, then I will become an inconsiderate brute who insists you abandon your responsibilities to keep my company instead.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad…” You leaned down. Spreading your hands over his pecs and down his abdomen, covering him with the length of your body. As you laid your head on his chest, you let out a sigh—he was warm at last, buzzing with a life and tenderness you didn’t know he was capable of.
“Just a few more minutes should be fine…” you relented.
He kissed your hair, a smile playing on his lips, and rested his hands on your back. Wondering how he got to be so lucky in the middle of the ice-barren sea.
Lemme get a ummm Lion fic...sex pollen or fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet...with some subby Lion if you please.
(Hi Lyriccc how are youuu?)
lion kaminski x f!reader
wc : 1k
prompt : fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet
OOH YESSS also HII RIN 💗🤭
ᰋ ˓ . contents. drunk sex, semi-public sex (bathroom stall), risk of getting caught, reader and lion are having a moaning contest, subby!lion, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, creampie, public indecency, someone walks in on them. mdni 18+
Lion is fumbling with his zipper, fingers clumsy and urgent, while you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and dragging the soaked scrap of fabric down your thighs in the tight stall.
Both of you are drunk enough to be giggling under your breath, reckless and flushed hot from whiskey, but nowhere near drunk enough to miss what it means when you kick the damp panties down around one ankle and leave yourself bare.
Which is, in hindsight, probably not what the owner of this bar intended for the women’s bathroom.
But alas.
The night had been doomed the second Lion started looking at you across that sticky little table, cheeks flushed from whiskey, hand tucked between your thighs like he still had any business pretending to behave. He’d barely touched you at first, just enough pressure to make you spread your legs wider while he nodded through conversation like he was listening and not thinking about fucking you before last call.
Sweet of him to try, really.
Now his jeans are shoved open, his cock thick and flushed in his fist, the head shiny and leaking a steady bead of precum that drips over his knuckles while he stares at you in the harsh light like you’ve personally ruined him just by lifting your skirt and letting him see how your cunt is glistening
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice already shaky. “Baby, you’re soaked.”
“And you’re leaking,” you hum, glancing down at the flushed head of his cock.
His face goes red, but his cock twitches like it has no respect for his embarrassment, and before he can say anything stupid or sweet, you pull him in by his shirt and kiss him hard enough to make his back hit the stall door.
The latch rattles but neither of you care.
His mouth is messy immediately, open and hot and tasting like whiskey. His hand slips up under your shirt with a needy little groan, cupping your breast through your bra before he gets impatient and tugs the cup down, sucking your nipple straight through the thin fabric of your shirt. The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, fabric clinging and darkening around his lips as he sucks harder, tongue dragging slow, filthy circles over the stiff peak until your cunt clenches around nothing.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as his tongue drags wet circles over you.
Lion moans around your nipple like he’s the one being touched, sucking harder when your hips jerk against him. By the time he pulls back, the fabric is wet and clinging, his lips are shiny, and his eyes are so dazed you almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
“Lion,” you say, trying not to laugh even though your thighs are already trembling. “Are you gonna stare at me or fuck me?”
The sound he makes is pitiful.
In the best possible way.
“Y-Yeah” he says quickly, nodding like he needs to reassure both of you. “Yes.”
Adorable. Also deeply concerning, because the second he gets one hand under your thigh and lines himself up, all that sweetness burns off into him shoving inside you with a groan so loud you have to slap a hand over his mouth.
His cock stretches you open in one rough push, thick and hot, sliding into you with a wet sound that echoes in the cramped stall. Your head knocks back against the divider, your leg hooks higher around his hip, and Lion’s eyes roll like he’s fighting for his life not to finish on the spot.
“Ohhh fuck,” he groans against your palm, muffled and desperate. “You feel so good. Shit, baby, you feel so good.”
You pull your hand away just to kiss him again, swallowing the next moan as he starts fucking you standing up. HHis hips are too eager, his hands can’t decide where to hold you, and your bodies keep bumping the stall wall hard enough that anyone nearby could probably connect the dots with very little imagination.
Still, the man is putting in work.
Lion grips your thigh and lifts it higher, pressing you back while his cock drives into you at a mean angle that makes your toes curl inside your shoe. Your slick is everywhere—coating him thick and shiny, smearing between your thighs, dripping down to soak into the waistband of his boxers. The wet slap of his hips against yours, the squelch every time he bottoms out, the way your cunt grips and flutters around him like it’s trying to keep him buried deep.
“Right there,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Lion gasps, immediately sounding like he might not have a choice anyway. “I won’t, baby, I swear.”
The sweet little promise does not match the way he’s fucking you.
He’s loud, messy, panting into your mouth and groaning every time your cunt clenches around him. Then his next thrust slips wrong, his cock popping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that makes both of you freeze. Your pussy flutters around nothing, a thick string of your combined wetness stretching between your stretched hole and the shiny head of his cock before it breaks and drips down your thigh.
Then you both start laughing like idiots.
“Fuck, sorry,” he pants, forehead dropping to your shoulder while his cock slides slick against your inner thigh. “Sorry, baby, I—”
“Put it back in,” you whisper, still breathless.
Lion lifts his head, face flushed dark, and wraps a trembling hand around the base of his cock. He rubs the head against your entrance once, twice, dragging it through your soaked folds on purpose now, smearing your slick all over himself, nudging your clit with every pass until you’re squirming.
Either because he can’t aim or because he’s drunk enough to forget he’s supposed to be shy.
“Lion,” you warn.
“I know, I know,” he pants, then pushes back inside you with a rough thrust that wipes the laughter right out of your mouth.
After that, he fucks you harder, like the slip embarrassed him into proving a point. His hand grips your ass under your skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drags you onto every thrust, cock slamming into you with wet, filthy sounds that fill the stall.
He kisses you sloppily, all tongue and teeth and helpless little noises while your skirt stays rucked up around your waist and his jeans rub rough against your thighs.
When someone walks into the bathroom and turns on the sink, Lion’s whole body stutters, hips faltering for half a second.
You bite his lower lip and squeeze around him again.
“Baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck while still fucking into you. “They’re gonna hear.”
“They already hear,” you murmur, pulling his hair just enough to make him whimper. “So you might as well continue.”
Lion’s hips go sloppy immediately, thrusts losing rhythm as he chases it with no dignity left at all. He’s panting hard, groaning into your skin, one hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise while the other braces against the stall wall.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice breaking. “I’m gonna come so hard, baby, please—”
He comes with a loud, wrecked groan that he barely manages to bury against your mouth, hips jerking hard as he spills inside you. His whole body shakes with it, cock pulsing deep while his hands cling to you like he’ll collapse if he lets go.
From the sinks, someone clears their throat.
Lion’s eyes go comically wide, still buried inside you, cock twitching with the last weak spurts of cum as embarrassment crashes over him.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing while he’s still inside you.
“Do you think they heard?” he whispers.
A hand dryer starts outside the stall, loud and merciful.
You pat his cheek, smiling sweetly. “Baby, people in the parking lot heard.”
Lion groans, drops his forehead to your shoulder, and somehow still gives one tiny little twitch inside you like embarrassment does absolutely nothing to help him behave.
prompt : finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
RAHH FARMER REMMICK yes yes yes. i did change it from a hedge maze to a corn maze to fit the scene !
ᰋ ˓ . contents. semi-public sex / risk of getting caught, oral sex / messy blowjob, throatfucking, gagging, spit, cum swallowing, size kink, shy!remmick, whiny!remmick, praise kink, light teasing. mdni 18+
“Darlin’—fuck, darlin’, your mouth,” Remmick whines, way past holding his tongue on curses, his big hand trembling against the side of your face as his cock slides heavy over your tongue, the broad head drooling a steady pulse of salty precum that coats your tastebuds.
Which, first of all, is rich coming from him.
This is the same man who had spent most of the afternoon standing around his folks’ backyard barbecue looking like he had never had a filthy thought in his life.
All shy smiles, pink ears, work-worn hands wrapped around a sweating glass of sweet tea while his mama told somebody from church that her boy was still “a little bashful around pretty girls.”
A little bashful.
Cute, really.
Especially considering that same bashful boy is currently tucked between two rows of tall corn with his jeans shoved open, belt hanging loose, shirt rucked up just enough to show the dark trail of sweat-damp hair under his belly button, and his cock forcing your mouth open so wide your lips feel stretched to their limit.
Very wholesome. Very family barbecue appropriate.
The corn maze was technically for the kids, but in your defense, the kids were busy throwing bean bags by the porch, and Remmick had been looking at your mouth across the yard like he wanted to climb out of his own skin.
You could only be expected to behave so much.
There were paper plates, folding chairs, somebody’s aunt fanning herself with a napkin, his daddy manning the smoker, and Remmick turning red every time your tongue slipped over your straw.
So, really, who could blame you?
Not you, that’s for damn sure.
Now you’re on your knees in the dirt, one hand wrapped tight around the thick base of his cock, the other curled around his tense thigh as spit slicks down your chin and makes a mess of your chest. You still can’t take all of him without your throat fighting it, and he keeps trying to apologize for it like that isn’t half the reason you dragged him out here in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, voice breaking as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, you’re just—ohhh fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”
The praise makes you hum around him, and Remmick nearly loses his knees.
The pride of somebody’s little southern town, reduced to gripping corn stalks because your lips are wrapped around his cock ten yards away from the potato salad. His hips twitch forward before he can stop himself, pushing in deeper, and you gag so prettily around him that his whole body jerks.
“Oh, Christ,” he chokes, looking down at you with wide eyes.
The second you blink up at him through watery lashes and deliberately relax your throat to take him deeper, Remmick makes a noise so desperate and broken it belongs in a confession booth.
His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to be sweet about it, like there’s anything sweet about the wet, choking sounds your mouth is making or the way your throat keeps tightening every time he slips too far.
You pull off just enough to breathe, strings of spit clinging from your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock, and his eyes drop to the mess with a look so stunned you almost laugh. His cock bobs in the air between you, heavy and angry-red, another bead of precum welling at the slit and sliding down the veined underside while you stroke him slow with your spit-slick hand.
“Look at you all shy,” you murmur, stroking him slow with your spit-slick hand.
Remmick’s face goes so red you’d think you’d slapped him. “Baby,” he whines, and there’s something so good about hearing that soft, embarrassed plea while his cock twitches in your hand.
“What?” you hum, batting your lashes like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “You want me to stop?”
His answer comes too fast, too honest. “No.”
You smile, and take him back into your mouth before he can feel too embarrassed about admitting it.
His hand finally settles at the back of your head, resting there with his fingers shaking like he wants to guide you and is too polite to be honest about it.
So you make it easy for him.
You press forward until your throat works around the head of him, gagging softly as your nose nearly brushes the hair at his base. He smells like sun-warmed skin and barbecue smoke and pure, desperate arousal, and it makes your head spin. Remmick’s hips buck, rougher this time, and the sound of your throat catching around him goes straight to the heat between your thighs.
Somewhere beyond the corn, someone laughs loud enough to remind you both that his whole family is still eating barbecue in the yard.
That should probably slow you down, but it doesn’t. If anything, the risk makes it hotter, makes you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, bobbing your head in short, sloppy strokes that have spit bubbling at the corners of your stretched lips.
Remmick realizes it too, because his grip tightens in your hair and his gaze darts toward the open end of the row before snapping back down to you, flushed and panicked and so turned on he looks like he might cry.
“Gonna get us caught,” he breathes, even as his hips rock forward again.
You hum around him again, and that’s the last of his manners.
Remmick starts fucking your mouth in short, desperate little thrusts, messy enough that your throat keeps catching around him and your eyes keep watering.
Your hand works what you can’t fit, slicking him up with every stroke, and his cock feels impossibly heavy on your tongue, pulsing every time you gag. His balls are drawn up tight, tapping against your chin on the deeper pushes.
“Good girl,” he whimpers, and then seems personally embarrassed that he said it so loud. “Sh—I’m sorry, I just—your mouth feels so good. So good, darlin’, you’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
Remmick’s hand tightens on your nape, his stomach flexing hard under the bunched-up hem of his shirt, and his hips stutter like his body is trying to decide between pulling away and burying himself deeper.
He chooses wrong. Or right. Depends on who you ask.
You take him until you gag again, and his cock throbs hard against your tongue.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking into something downright pathetic. “Baby, wait, I’m—oh God, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You hollow your cheeks, stroke him faster, and look up at him just in time to watch his face fall apart.
Remmick comes with a broken, keening whine, hips jerking forward in short, uncontrolled spasms as the first thick, hot spurt of cum hits the back of your throat. It’s a lot—pent up from hours of teasing and shy looks across the yard—and it floods your mouth in heavy, salty pulses.
You swallow around him greedily, throat working to milk every drop, sucking through every pulse, tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, until his thighs are shaking violently under your hands and his breathing has gone ragged and broken.
He tries to pull back out of some last-minute gentlemanly panic, but you don’t let him. For a man who was worried about being heard, he’s doing a terrible job of being quiet.
You keep your mouth sealed around him, sucking him through the oversensitive aftershocks until he’s whimpering softly, his cock twitching weakly against your tongue as you lick the last dribbles from the slit.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, he stares down at you like you’ve ruined his life in the best possible way.
Your lips are swollen, your chin is wet, and there’s dirt on your knees while his cock gives one weak little twitch against your palm like it is just as stupid as the rest of him.
You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “You good?”
Remmick swallows, glancing toward the barbecue like he only just remembered his mama exists.
“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasps, voice hoarse and fucked-out.
You glance pointedly at his still-open jeans, then back up at his wrecked face. “A minute to tuck yourself away, or a minute because you’re gonna get hard again if I keep looking at you?”
His blush comes back immediately.
God bless him.
“Both,” he mutters, and somehow, that might be the filthiest thing he’s said all day.
thinking about sex pollen with patrick.... he's a doctor..... of course he knows exactly what to do to make it better....👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
patrick sumner x f!reader
wc : 1.2k
prompt / trope : sex pollen
patrick and sex pollen i’m hard asf…
ᰋ ˓ . contents. husband!patrick, sex pollen / aphrodisiac pollen, begging, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praise kink, creampie, desperation. mdni 18+
By the time Patrick gets you upstairs, your knees have gone so unreliable that he has to half-carry you through the bedchamber door with one arm locked around your waist and the other hand pressed firm to your belly, as though he can hold all that awful heat inside you still by sheer medical authority.
Which, to his credit, he is attempting.
You had only meant to spend a harmless quarter hour in the conservatory before dinner, trailing your fingers over ferns and glass-warm leaves while Patrick spoke with the old gardener about some imported specimen with a Latin name you could not pronounce if a pistol were pressed to your temple.
There had been a pale yellow bloom tucked low beneath a curl of greenery, sweet-smelling and damp with pollen, and after that came the itching warmth beneath your stays, the clumsy pressure between your thighs, and the mortifying discovery that every brush of your husband’s hand against your back made you want to climb him like a fever-stricken animal.
“Breathe,” he says now, voice low and steady, though his own composure is suffering in small but satisfying ways.
His collar is undone, his dark hair mussed from where your fingers had caught in it on the stairs, and his eyes have sharpened in that physician’s way that would be very reassuring if you were not currently trying to rub yourself against his thigh like a woman without a shred of upbringing. “There now, my love. Let me see what this has done to you.”
“Patrick,” you gasp, because his hands are already at the buttons of your bodice, quick and practiced, and there’s something terribly indecent about being undressed like a patient when you are wet enough to ruin your stockings.
He glances up at you, mouth stern, eyes not stern at all. “Tell me plainly. Do you want my help?”
You nearly laugh at him, except the sound catches in your throat when his knuckles graze the swollen peak of your breast through your chemise. “If you ask me that again, I shall bite you.”
Patrick’s expression changes only slightly, but you know him well enough to see it.
The doctor has not gone. The husband has simply stepped forward beside him, hungry, fond, and very aware that whatever strange botanical curse has taken hold of you is no match for a man who knows your body better than he knows his own name.
“On the bed,” he says, soft enough to be kind and firm enough to make your stomach turn over.
You obey with embarrassing haste. Your skirts are pushed up before you can make any show of modesty, petticoats gathered high around your hips while Patrick kneels between your parted legs.
The cool air touches the damp heat of you, and you hear him inhale through his nose, quiet and rough, as he sees exactly how badly the pollen has undone you.
Your drawers are wet through, clinging obscenely, and when he hooks his fingers into the slit and pulls the fabric apart, the sound that leaves you is not fit for any respectable house in England.
“Oh,” he murmurs, and the single syllable has enough satisfaction in it to make you want to kick him. “Poor thing.”
“Do not poor thing me.”
“I shall poor thing you as much as I please,” Patrick says, thumb pressing just above your clit, not enough to help, just enough to make you jolt. “You are shaking.”
He lowers his head and kisses the inside of your thigh, bearded jaw scratching your skin while his fingers part you with clinical patience and marital indecency.
The sight of him there, broad shoulders between your legs, eyes fixed on your cunt like the answer to the whole affliction is written in the slick shine of you, nearly finishes you before he has properly begun.
Patrick slides one finger inside you, slow, and your back arches so sharply the bed ropes creak beneath you.
“There,” he breathes. “That eases it, does it not?”
You would like to answer with dignity. Truly, you would. Instead, you grab at the coverlet and whimper because his finger curls, pressing into that soft, wicked place inside you with such calm accuracy that you understand, quite suddenly, why people trust physicians with their lives.
The man could be insufferable, blunt, bad-tempered, and far too pleased with himself when he was right, but dear God, he knows exactly where to touch.
A second finger joins the first, stretching you open while his thumb begins to circle your bud.
The relief is immediate and not nearly enough.
Your hips chase his hand shamelessly, cunt clenching around his fingers, slick dripping down to his knuckles as the terrible heat rolls through you again.
“Please,” you gasp, and there goes the last of your pride.
Patrick looks up at you from beneath dark brows.
“Please make it better.”
His hand stills just enough to make you sob, and the sound seems to break something in him. He leans over you, fingers still buried deep, and kisses you with such tenderness that you taste your own desperation on his breath.
“I will,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I have you. You need not be brave with me.”
The first orgasm is dragged out of you on his fingers, hard and wet and loud, your thighs closing around his wrist while he talks you through it in that rough, steady voice.
You come so hard your vision blurs, but the relief lasts only long enough for you to draw one trembling breath before the heat surges back worse than before.
Patrick feels it happen around his fingers.
His jaw flexes. “Again, then.”
“Patrick, I need you inside me.”
He swears under his breath, restraint worn dangerously thin. His clothes come off with far less patience than yours. You see him hard and heavy between his thighs, flushed dark at the tip, and your whole body clenches around nothing.
“If I am to treat this properly, you will tell me if it pains you,” he says, taking himself in hand and stroking once as he settles over you.
“It already pains me,” you say, reaching for him. “Patrick, please.”
The head of his cock presses against you, and for one dreadful, heavenly instant he only holds there, letting your slick spread over him while you squirm beneath his weight. Then he pushes in, slow and thick, filling you until your mouth falls open and your nails bite into his shoulders.
Patrick groans against your throat when he bottoms out, his body hot and solid over yours, his composure finally cracking at the feel of your cunt gripping him like it intends to keep him there. “Christ,” he mutters, drawing back before thrusting in again hard enough to make you cry out.
The singular word makes you wetter.
Patrick thrusts into you like he’s curing you, which is to say with purpose, stamina, and a concentration so intense it would almost be funny if you were not coming apart beneath him.
Each thrust drives the breath from your lungs and draws a creak from the bed, his cock dragging through the mess of you while his hand slips between your bodies to rub your clit again.
He watches your face the whole time, noting every tremor, every gasp, every clench, using all his awful knowledge against you until you are begging without words.
The second orgasm breaks over you faster than the first. The third is worse. By then there is sweat at Patrick’s temples, your thighs are slick against his hips, and the room smells of crushed flowers, linen, and sex.
He keeps praising you through it, voice hoarse and affectionate, calling you his sweet girl, his poor love, his beautiful wife, until you are half convinced the pollen will kill you if his mouth ever stops.
When his rhythm finally falters, you feel the change in him: his thrusts grow rougher, less measured, his forehead lowering to yours as your cunt pulses around him yet again.
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
Patrick comes buried deep inside you with a low, broken groan, his hips pressing tight to yours as he spills into the same aching heat he has spent the last hour trying to soothe.
The mess of it is immediate, filthy and warm, leaking around his cock as he gives you a few slow, involuntary thrusts that make both of you gasp.
Afterward, he doesn’t move away. He stays over you, breath heavy, one hand smoothing damp hair back from your face while the other rests over your racing heart.
You should feel cured, calm, any number of proper, ladylike things. Instead, your hips lift faintly against him.
Patrick’s eyes close as if he expected this and still hoped, foolishly, for a different result.
“Oh, my love,” he says, voice worn thin with fond exhaustion, “what a very troublesome flower.”
Can you please do these in one if you can but w roy goode
1) overwhelmed, but happy crying during sex
6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
6) accidental i love you’s during sex
.
roy goode x f!reader
blurb (-1k)
prompt : marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
okay so i’ve already gotten requests from other characters with both 1 & 3, and i didn’t want to write the same for two characters so i did marathon sex for roy 👩🏾💻 i hope that’s fine and you can still enjoy !!
Roy is underneath you, naked, sweaty, and already looking half-ruined by the time your hips start moving over his cock again.
Which is a little dramatic of him, if you’re being honest.
The man had been the one to pull you back into his lap after you both swore you needed to catch your breath, his hands sliding over your bare thighs like he had every intention of behaving until you settled over him and felt him hard against you all over again.
Now the room is hot enough to feel mean about it, the sheets are twisted beneath both of you, and Roy’s head is tipped back against the wall with his jaw tight as you ride him slow enough to make his restraint everybody’s problem.
California has the nerve to stay warm even after sundown, and Roy Goode has the nerve to look pretty with sweat sliding down his chest.
You’re naked in his lap, knees pressed into the thin mattress, body sore in ways that should probably make you quit but only make every roll of your hips feel filthier.
His cock fills you with that deep, aching stretch that keeps making your thighs tremble, and because you’re a terrible person, you keep grinding down just to feel the way his breath breaks when your cunt squeezes around him.
“Darlin’,” he warns, voice rough and low, one hand gripping your hip while the other spreads warm across your lower back.
You look down at him, mouth swollen from all the kissing, skin damp, pride absolutely undeserved considering your legs are seconds away from giving out. “What?”
Roy’s eyes drop between your bodies, watching himself disappear into you again, and whatever decent thought he had leaves his face immediately. “You keep doin’ that, I ain’t gonna last.”
Which is bold, really, considering he’s already come twice and still has the audacity to be buried inside you like neither of you have learned a single lesson all night.
You sink down slowly, taking him until your hips are flush with his, and Roy groans like you’ve finally managed to shoot him properly.
His fingers dig into your waist, his stomach flexing under your hands, and when you start bouncing on him with what little strength you have left, he tries to help you without making it obvious he’s losing his mind. His hips rise into you in short, rough thrusts, then harder than halfway, until the rhythm turns sloppy while he watches your tits bounce with each lift of your hips like it might fix something in him.
The whole thing is too much: his cock, the heat, the wet sound of you taking him, the way his eyes keep moving over your naked body like he can’t decide where to look first.
Apparently, Roy decides the safest option is nowhere at all, because he kisses you hard and slips out from under you before your cunt can finish milking him empty again.
You whine at the loss, embarrassingly loud, but the sound catches in your throat when his hand wraps around his cock.
Roy sits there between your spread thighs, flushed and breathing heavy, stroking himself with rough, lazy pulls while his gaze stays fixed on the mess between your legs.
His cock is slick from you, flushed and thick in his fist, and you would be more offended about being left empty if he didn’t look so good jerking himself off in front of you. His thumb drags over the tip, his jaw flexes, and you watch his self-control crumble by inches.
“Well,” you breathe, smiling even though your body feels wrung out, “don’t stop now.”
Roy gives you a look, dark and almost amused, hand still moving. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
“Maybe.”
Roy leans forward and kisses you hard enough to steal whatever smart thing you had waiting, his bare chest pressing to yours as he pushes you down with more hunger than grace.
The mattress gives beneath you, damp sheets sticking to your skin, and by the time your head hits the pillow, he’s already between your thighs again, guiding himself through the slick mess you’ve both made like his self-control died somewhere around the second round and nobody cared enough to bury it.
Roy hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, kisses the inside of your knee like he’s sorry in advance, and thrusts back into you so deep your mouth falls open with nothing useful coming out.
The angle is downright evil. His cock presses exactly where it shouldn’t, and you feel every inch of him because there’s nothing between you but sweat, skin, and the filthy stretch of him filling you again.
“Oh, there?” he breathes, quiet as ever, but there’s enough smugness in it to make you want to bite him.
You settle for clawing at his arm while he fucks you into the mattress, both of you messy, sticking together everywhere your bodies meet.
His chest brushes yours with each thrust. Sweat drips from him onto your skin. The room smells like heat and sex, and the bed creaks loud enough that you’re half sure the whole boarding house knows Roy Goode is not nearly as polite as he looks.
When you come again, it’s not graceful.
Your hands grab at his shoulders, his wrist, the sheets, anything you can reach while your cunt pulses around him and your leg trembles against his shoulder.
Roy drops his forehead close to yours with a rough groan, his rhythm faltering as you clench down on him again and again, milking every ounce of restraint right out of his body.
The man never stood a chance.
He comes buried deep, hips pressing hard between your thighs as he spills into you with a shudder, one hand gripping your raised leg while the other braces beside your head. He stays there afterward, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside your sore, messy cunt like he hasn’t learned a single lesson all night.
You turn your face against the pillow, smiling even though your body feels entirely wrung out. “You done?”
Roy lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, hair damp at his forehead, mouth swollen from kissing you, and there’s something almost innocent about him right up until his gaze drops between your naked bodies.
His hips give one slow, mean little roll that makes you gasp.
Prompt list 2: 5) filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars with Lion so he can have something to watch when he’s away from reader… PRESS RECORD UH UH UH
lion kaminski x f!reader
blurb (-1k)
prompt : filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars.
i’m a SUCKER for sex filming…
ᰋ ˓ . contents. established relationship, sex filming, doggystyle, messy sex, protected p in v, light size kink, teasing, dirty talk, very light overstimulation. mdni 18+
The wet sound of Lion fucking into you fills the room, loud enough that you almost forget the phone is propped up on the dresser, recording every slick thrust of his condom-covered cock stretching you open from behind.
Your face is turned toward the camera, cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes heavy and mouth parted around these breathy little sounds you can’t keep to yourself. One hand is tucked beneath your belly, fingers moving between your thighs, rubbing your clit in messy circles every time his hips snap forward and push you harder into the sheets.
Lion isn’t saying much, not at first.
He’s too busy trying not to look at the phone.
It had taken forever to convince him to do this, mostly because he kept getting awkward whenever you brought it up, laughing under his breath and acting like the thought of watching himself fuck you later didn’t make his cock twitch in his boxers.
He wanted it—you knew he wanted it.
He just didn’t know what to do with himself once the little red light was on and suddenly everything was being saved.
Unfortunately for him, he looks good like this.
A little flushed. A little overwhelmed. Hair falling into his eyes, chest rising too fast, hands gripping your hips because he needs somewhere to put them.
His movements aren’t shy at all, even if his face is. Every thrust is rough, his thick cock dragging in and out of you until your thighs start shaking and your fingers slip uselessly over your clit.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost embarrassed by how loud it comes out. “You’re making this so hard.”
You laugh into the mattress, but it breaks into a moan when he thrusts deeper. “You’re the one fucking me like that.”
Lion gives a nervous little huff behind you, something caught between a laugh and a groan, and his fingers flex against your waist. “Yeah, well—shit, baby, you feel so good.”
It’s sweet, somehow. Sweet in the most obscene way possible, with him buried inside you and your slick making a mess of your fingers.
You keep your face angled toward the phone because you know he’ll look eventually, and when he does, you want him to see exactly what he’s doing to you.
His hips start to lose their rhythm after that, still rough, just not as controlled.
The bed creaks under you, the dresser gives a tiny rattle, and your eyes flutter when the head of his cock hits that spot that makes your whole body go loose.
You rub your clit faster, whining openly now, not caring that the camera is catching your ruined face and the drool at the corner of your mouth.
Lion looks, and you can tell the exact instant it happens because his thrust catches inside you.
His gaze flicks to the phone screen, and there you are in the little frame, fucked-out and trembling with your face pressed into the mattress. Your eyes are half-lidded, your lips shiny and parted, your hand working desperately beneath you while he pounds into you from behind.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking.
Lion shoves in deep, hips pressed flush to your ass as he spills into the condom with a rough, broken sound, his hands tightening on your waist while his cock pulses inside you.
He tries to keep quiet, tries to tuck his face down like the camera won’t catch how wrecked he is, but there’s no hiding the way his body shudders behind yours.
You’re still touching yourself, peering up at him from the corner of your eye, still fluttering around him, and the overstimulation makes him gasp.
“Baby,” he mutters, breathless and shy now that he’s finished too fast. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
You smile against the mattress, dragging your fingers over your clit just to feel him twitch inside you again.
“Like what? Like I know you’re gonna watch this every night you’re gone?”
Lion glances back at the phone, then at you, cheeks pink and eyes dark. And the answer is clear as day on his face.
He’s definitely going to ask to make another sometime soon.
ANYWAYS i’m still working on these blurb requests (and planning the new ones i just got 🤭) ! i’m done with two, so i’ll be posting those later tonight or tomorrow afternoon 👩🏾💻
hi. anonymous cause i don’t want people to hate me, but i just wanted to say your writing is amazing. i am a victim of rape and its a weirdly comforting thing to read, so thankyou for writing these fanfics you’re amazing. 💝
hi bby, i’m so sorry that happened to you, and i hope you know you never have to explain or justify why certain fiction feels comforting, cathartic, or helpful to you. everyone processes things differently, and no one gets to decide what coping, comfort or exploration is supposed to look like for someone else 🫂💗
it genuinely means a lot that my writing could bring you any kind of comfort. thank you for being so kind 🫶🏾
I know you didn't ask and feel free to ignore, but I don't think those anon(s) actually care that you are writing dark fics, especially because plenty of your fics don't fall under that category. I am a reader of your writing and I think I have only read about two or three dark fics (if that!) out of all the ones I have chosen to read. It is clear that they are finding any way to discourage you from writing because they are threatened by your skill and talent. They originally sent a similar message to Rosie using the same language and grammar but it was saying how they found her current writing lackluster and how she should "Do Better." Now they are just acting like the morality police to get you to stop writing (or at least shame you), but the real reason is that they can't do what you do, they are well aware of it, and you aren't appeasing them with your skill in the way they want. They can't get the same recognition or really anything from you, so they are throwing tantrums and making you the target of their inadequacy. I've had plenty of instances where people put down my work or attack it only for them to turn around, copy it, and pretend like they came up with it themselves. It's pure jealousy and losertry and it's transparent. These people are thoroughly reading your fics, they're foaming at the mouth because they can't meet you at your level, and they are then jumping through hoops to come up with ways to snuff out the "threat." I bet you if you said you were taking a break or you were gonna stop writing, some random person or account would miraculously appear with dark fics to "take your place." They just don't wanna seem like they are losers for being envious of what you offer, but we all know they are.
now that you’ve said this, some stuff starts clicking. at a point, it stops reading as concern and starts looking like targeted harassment. because if someone truly doesn’t want to read dark fiction, the answer is extremely simple. and repeatedly coming into someone’s inbox to shame them, threaten them is wild 😭
and my whole blog isn’t even just dark fanfic.. but people will flatten everything you do into one convenient argument when they’re trying to make ppl look bad
thank you for this ! this is very kind, very thoughtful, and honestly made me feel a lot less crazy about the whole thing 😭🫶🏾
ANYWAYS i’m still working on these blurb requests (and planning the new ones i just got 🤭) ! i’m done with two, so i’ll be posting those later tonight or tomorrow afternoon 👩🏾💻
Do better. There’s victims of the acts that you’re romanticising. If you’re a victim yourself, that’s still not an excuse.
Stop writing rape.
okay… no one owes you a confession to justify writing anything.
no one is required to disclose their trauma, victimhood, personal history, or life story in order to write dark fiction. no one has to ‘prove’ they’re allowed to explore certain subjects in fiction, and spreading the idea that people need to publicly identify themselves as victims before they’re ‘allowed’ to write about certain topics is invasive, harmful, and extremely weird and entitled.
my work is tagged and my warnings are there. AGAIN, you’re responsible for curating your own space. block me, mute me, unfollow me, filter the tags, or stop reading. those are literally your options. i’m not going to argue about that with ppl who purposely ignore warnings and then act shocked by the content they chose to read.
okay so i’m not going to respond directly to the ask i just got. i’m just gonna to put this for a reminder in the future.
this blog will sometimes feature dark fiction, and the warnings / tags are there for a reason.
i understand that not every theme is going to be for everyone, and that’s completely fine. everyone has their own limits, triggers, and comfort levels when it comes to fiction. but that’s also why i make sure to label my work clearly, so people can make their own choice before reading.
dark fiction is not the same thing as endorsement. writing about horror, violence, obsession, noncon, manipulation, or any other disturbing subject does not mean supporting those things in real life. fiction is a space where people explore uncomfortable, taboo, frightening, or morally wrong concepts without advocating for them. so please, read the warnings. curate your own space. block tags, mute words, unfollow, scroll past, or simply don’t read what isn’t for you.
okayy so anyone who sent things for paddy & jimmy, unfortunately i am still learning those characters so i fear i will not be able to fulfill those requests 😭😭
