These boys like to be teased. Run your hands along his body slowly. Touch his chest, his thighs, his neck, his ass... anywhere but where he wants it, where he needs it. Licking and sucking on his sensitive nipples like they're candy. They'll be sore and puffy when you're done~
Then, when you finally, *finally* touch him... it isn't enough. Make him beg. Make him whimper and cry. After so long spent bricked up and waiting for you to give him what he's craving, he's desperate for whatever you're willing to give.
Make sure to drag it out. He says he wants you to hurry up, that he hates the teasing... but secretly, he lives for it. Extend the foreplay as long as you want. The longer the better.
So when you finally wrap your hand around his cock, finally stroke him, bring him so, *so* close to orgasm... he's begging for more, for you to keep going, don't stop! The poor boy's waited long enough, don't you think? He's spewing thank you after thank you, praising you like you're his god/goddess. Only to gasp when you don't stop.
"Wa- wait, w-what are you doing?! I- I just- *AH!~* c-camee!!" His eyes are rolling back as his hips buck wildly, away from your hand, back into it. It feels so good. His body doesn't know what to do with the sensations you're giving him.
"I thought you wanted to cum, dear. Did you not? Next time I can edge you for longer if you'd like~"
He sobs at your words, realizing now that you never planned on giving him a break. He gasps and moans, begging, pleading with you.
"Stop, stop stop stop!! It's- *ah~* t-too much!! Too much!!"
"That isn't what you say when you want it to stop, dear. Do you need your safe word~?"
The boy can barely process your words, but he doesn't use his safe word. And you could've sworn you heard him whisper "more~" under his breath.
So you make him keep cumming. Your hand speeds up, the other one coming up to rub at the head of his pretty cock. He keeps on cumming and cumming until you're satisfied or he passes out from exhaustion. When you finally let him rest, let him *breathe*, he's all tuckered out.
Aftercare is gently massaging where the ropes dug into his skin, rubbing in lotion to prevent the flesh from being too sore in the morning. Cleaning him up with a warm towel, gently to avoid giving him any more stimulation.
"You were so good for me, darling. So perfect. Hush now... rest. Rest, my good boy."
He's nearly passed out on the bed, his eyes closed, a soft smile on his face. Holding him close in your arms, you can feel his gentle, slow breathing as he drifts off to a peaceful sleep.
Bennett, Xingqiu, FREMINET, Sethos, Mika, Welt Yang, Arlan, Dan Heng, Sampo, Misha, GOROU, Kaveh, Xiao, Rody Lamoree, Eren Yaegar, Lance
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Man if someone like after we had sex if someone took the time to clean me up and said- no fuck it I'm writing it
Contents: implied sex, aftercare, reader has never had aftercare before, neither have I, I don't know what I'm talking about, no beta we die like my self image
Gender neutral reader <3
It was a truly overwhelming affair when you and him finally resolved the intense tension spiraling between you. Weeks on end of late nights with nothing but the company of your hands, ended abruptly in one night of passion. From past experiences, the expectation was that he would leave. That he would leave you to take care of yourself the second he could think straight enough to put his pants back on. But instead, he stayed.
"What are you doing?" You ask, confusion and exhaustion warring in your mind. He left, you thought. He got out of your bed and put on his boxers and left the room. But... he came back, now holding a damp cloth? You don't understand what it's for. No one's ever stayed before.
"I'm cleaning you up. Did you expect me to leave you here, sweaty and vulnerable, after what we did?" He responds calmly, tilting his head. It's as if he can't fathom the idea of not taking care of you. Not knowing what else to do, you simply lay there, letting him clean your arms, then your legs, your thighs, your stomach and chest, even your neck, shoulders, and back got wiped down. It feels... nice to be taken care of so gently. The cool cloth removes the sweat and other fluids easily from your tired body.
When he finishes washing your body, you think, "Okay. Now is when he leaves." But he doesn't leave. He lays down next to you and pulls you close to him, holding you gently but with a firmness that tells you that he won't let go unless you tell him to. You feel oddly safe in his arms despite the many emotions swirling in your mind.
"I'm not going to leave you unless you tell me to, my dear," he says, pressing his lips to your hair and giving you a kiss there before tucking your head under his chin. "You're safe with me. You did so well, you know. Took me so well... made me feel so, so good. Did you have a good time too, love?"
For a moment, you don't know what to say. He's... asking if you liked it? If you enjoyed yourself? Well, obviously, you did, but you never expected him to care.
"I... I really did. Thank you." You aren't sure what you're thanking him for. For staying, for cleaning you, for holding you, for caring enough to ask if you liked it too. Maybe you're thanking him for all of it, for every little thing he's done for you, to make you feel safe, secure, comfortable. Maybe you're thanking him for being a rock you can use to ground yourself. Because that's what he's doing for you, he's helping you to stay grounded, to come back to reality after the ecstasy he brought you.
"I need you to know how much I care for you, my dear. You truly did so well. I couldn't have asked for a better night, truly. Are you comfortable? Do you need water? Just say the word and I'll take the world for you." His praise, his promises, they make your heart flutter, your cheeks flush, yet they also make your chest tighten and throat feel like it's closing up. You nuzzle closer to him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing as close as possible as tears form in your eyes. No one has ever cared about your comfort the way he does. No one has ever cared about you the way he does. It makes you want to hold onto him until the world ends, and somehow, you think he'd let you.
I know this contradicts a previous smut I wrote, but Vincent Charbonneau (or Scaramouche) would never go down on you. If you ask him, he says, "what makes you think I'm interested in putting my mouth on your filthy cock/cunt?" He tsks at you with a disgusted expression before telling you to "get out."
If he's more fond of you, instead of making you leave, he'll tell you to "get on the bed and on your fucking knees" before fucking the life out of you. He edges himself so he can keep going for longer. If he gets tired or bored, which he will after not too long, he sits with his back to the headboard and orders you to ride him. Even if you're too fucked out to bounce on his cock, he'll help you. And by "help", I, of course, mean by slapping your ass hard enough to almost bruise. It only takes him a minute or two before he's thrusting up leisurely as with each descent, your hips are met with a harsh thrust. He doesn't stop until you literally don't have the energy to keep going. At which point he grinds up into your hole, slowly rocking his hips until he cums deep inside of you. He pulls out and gets off of the bed, leaving you without the satisfaction of your climax. He cleans himself up in the bathroom, letting you attempt to finish yourself off. But you can't do it. Your fingers will never be as good as his cock drilling into your hole, and the both of you know it. Vincent/Scara eventually comes back with a smirk on his face, seeing your desperation to get off.
"Oh, do you want to cum? Such a shame you didn't get to. Ah well, it can't be helped. I'm afraid I'm too spent to give you what you crave." He's slipped back into his friendly facade, leaving you to gaze at the cruelty in his eyes that he's carefully hid behind fallacies and lies. Vincent sends you home like this, desperate and needy.
If you live together, he goes to his desk to do some loose paperwork while waiting for you to fall asleep in your shared bed. Once you do, he climbs into bed and under the covers, wrapping one arm around you. In the morning, he'll say he acted in his sleep. For now, he enjoys the warmth of your body against his cold, dead skin.
Author's note: this is a work of fiction written by the author to deal with his own fear of failed CNC. He is coping. Let bro cope.
Content: failed safeword, CNC gone wrong, aftercare but the author has never had aftercare before so he doesn't know what he's doing
Man I need Mydei or Zhongli(Morax) or Capitano agreeing to a CNC play and accidentally going too far... yelling too loud, too harsh. Punishing too rough. Accidentally talking over you when you try to use your safe word. He didn't hear it. You think he did and is just ignoring it. He's gone too far and doesn't realize that your tears, your sobs are genuine. He doesn't stop until you break and beg him to stop with such genuine fear and pain that he has no doubt it's real. Saying every single safe word you can think of, saying "whatever safeword we're using tonight, please, just stop!"
He realizes he fucked up. Oh, he fucked up bad. The rest of the night and continuing into the next day(and the next, and the next...) is spent comforting you, apologizing, spoiling you, giving you everything you want, treating you like you're made of glass. He's so gentle and he makes you feel so safe now. He broke you down that night, and now it's time to build you back up. And he's so, so good at it. You feel better and more loved and important than ever before.
Gepard is just such a little submissive guy like... he screams praise kink. He also screams when you fuck him with your cock or strap on until he cries because he refused to take a break or a vacation. Like. He doesn't want to rest? Fine, you'll MAKE him rest. When you're done with that man he will be KNOCKED OUT I tell you. And the way he cries.. AHH! He is SUCH a pretty crier.
Gepard whimpers. He cries quietly and whimpers. If you tie his hands behind his back, or better yet, use his own handcuffs on him... you'll hear him let out the cutest softest moans cuz he can't hold them in. So take that cock or strap on, put that hand on his pretty penis, play with those cute, pink nipples... and he's putty in your hands. Make sure to give him lots of praise. Poor boy isn't experienced so he needs his reassurance <333
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Fem/gender neutral reader(kinda I mean there's no pronouns) x Vincent Charbonneau - cunnilingus, overstimulation, little bit of blood(no violence, just brief mention of a tiny bit)
Imagining Vincent tasting you for the first time, eating you like a man starved. The second his tongue reaches your slick he's addicted. He's never tasted anything so sweet before. And he can *taste* it, he can *finally* taste something.
Imagining him grabbing you by your thighs and pulling you closer so he can bury his face in your cunt. His nose is rubbing against your clit as he devours your insides.
Imagining him making you cum and cum and cum with no signs of stopping. His jaw will be sore, and his lips and tongue will be tired, but he'd rather die than stop now.
Imagining him finally pulling away after hours like this and kissing you passionately, biting your lip hard enough to make a little bit of blood drip down, which he licks off of your chin.
Imagining Vincent not wanting to tell you directly how good you were being. He isn't good at verbalizing his emotions. But you can tell from his actions, from the ghost of a smile on his lips. You can tell from the way he actually *stays* instead of leaving like he's done to so many before. You can tell from the way he cleans you up so carefully, his touch gentle as he wipes you down with his softest washcloth.
hi! I really love your fic, I was just curious if you take commissions? I would be really interested if so
Hi there! I have taken commissions before, and definitely would be open to taking them again. Just the other day I was thinking about formalising some of the stuff form my (incredibly loose and casual) price listings from before so this is probably the sign I needed to get on and do that! Stay tuned...
Do drop me a line off anon sometime though if you’d like to discuss what you’re looking for. I think, given the time they take, I probably wouldn’t take commissions for anything more than about 10k words but if you have something in mind that can fit in that space please do get in touch ^^
Mornings never run late enough. Deep winter keeps London in the dark long after the socially acceptable time to be awake if you have to be at work that day. It’s bullshit, having to brush your teeth in the unflattering halogen glow of a bulb on the blink because the sun hasn’t pulled its shit together long enough to do the job itself.
Jameka glares into the sink so she doesn’t have to meet her own eye in the bathroom mirror. Her hair falls forward, long enough to trail in the sink and catch the tail end of the foam that she spits from her mouth. She’s been thinking of dying it, maybe going blonde and showing up at her parents’ on the weekend just to have them turn her away for betraying her roots, or whatever. Her mother will say she doesn’t keep it well either way. Rats’ nest, that’s what she’s packing.
The roof of her mouth twitches and irritates underneath the toothpaste. She stops scrubbing away at her teeth to push against it with her tongue, trying to stop the itch. It doesn’t work. She spits, rinses and gives herself a minute to recover from the toothpaste.
It’s an allergic reaction, probably. She gets those. Never like this before but she’ll take it over spending the morning puking because she accidentally ate something with almonds in it. She makes for the medicine cabinet, pulling out off-brand antihistamines and throwing one down her throat while she prods ineffectually at her itchy pallet.
It’s getting worse. Jameka doesn’t even think, just grabs the freshly cleaned toothbrush and shoves it into her mouth, bristles first to take the edge off the sting.
After a minute, it hurts. After two, she can’t stop. Blood pools behind her bottom incisors till it spills over and starts to chase her toothpaste foam down the drain. It takes time for these pills to kick in. She could be standing her scrubbing her mouth raw for the next half hour.
Or-
Ten seconds later and the itch vanishes into thin air. Jameka turns on the faucet and doesn’t look at the blood in the sink. She swirls water between her teeth and feels the shredded shin of her pallet brushing against her tongue.
Curiosity gets the better of her when she sticks a finger back into her mouth, to press against the roof and see if it comes away bloody, but rather than the rough texture of over-moist skin she’s met by something hard and smooth. The finger leaves her mouth with a squeal, and you best believe it comes away bloody.
It doesn’t matter how hard she tries to look at herself in the mirror, the light's not strong enough and the angle’s all wrong to see what kind of damage has been done. She probes again it’s with her tongue, terrified that she knows what’s coming, that she’s about to meet bone. How do you explain that to a dentist? Jameka’s never heard of someone scratching their mouth down to the bone before.
Tongue hits the same hard surface as finger. It pauses, unable to work out if what it feels is smooth or rough. It moves and finds texture without pattern. Finds texture all too familiar.
The taste of blood and mint congeals in Jameka’s throat, bile rising fast behind them, as she uses the tip of her tongue to carefully count the newly emerged teeth.
