Imagine fingering your F/O. The way they cling to you, and how they sound moaning in your ear. Imagine the way they gasp and cry out for you as you find just the right spot inside them with your fingers. The way they beg for you to not stop. How they sound crying out your name as they cum on your hand.
Imagine your F/O(s) checking you out as you work out. They think you’re fucking hot when you work up a sweat and they can’t stop staring. They can’t help but want you to use those muscles on them or have you underneath them. When you turn to them to ask them something they can barely get out a response because they’re so flustered and their head(s) is/are so full of dirty thoughts.
Imagine trying to have a moment with the Predator.
He took off his mask, revealing another- No, revealing an inhumanly alluring face. The speckled complexion, the strong mandibles, the golden eyes in obsidian sockets. All of it was gorgeous to you.
“You’re beautif-”
“You are one ugly motherfucker,” remarked Dutch, staring straight ahead.
Imagine doing the projector operator in his booth while Daughter of Horror’s playing. The Blob apparently liked your performance was satisfying, because he leaves you two alone before continuing its rampage.
hypersuccumor:a gender related to being hypersexual, being a succubus, and not just being a sexual being
for anon! colors are inspired by various hypersexual flags i’ve seen and my succugender redesign, plus a shade of green (opposite of red/pink) to represent the nonsexual aspect of this gender. the term combines ‘hypers’ from ‘hypersexual’, ‘succu’ from ‘succubus’, + ‘mor’ from ‘more’!
due to the nature of this term, i ask that minors do not interact! you can use this term, just don’t interact with the post. thank you!
flag id: a flag with 5 stripes. in order, they are near-black, very dark red, dark red-pink, red-pink, and light mint green. end id.
wish so bad folks would quit saying stone identity is always from trauma like stop lol fgklgdmfklgjdflgj it perpetuates some really harmful stereotypes seriously mgdlfkgj
like maybe don’t treat stone identity like a symptom of a mental illness and instead like, idk, a documented historical identity and sexual preference that many people have for many reasons.
yes, for some of those folks, is trauma a reason? totally. but that’s certainly not the only one and frankly there are very few other LGBT identities that others demand you justify and validate with a good “reason.” nobody??? is obligated???? to disclose??? their trauma???? to validate an identity that easily exists without it
A small reader x Adler thing I whipped up. It’s not my best work, the writing is a bit stripped back, I haven’t put too much effort into it, so it is messy and a bit simple and rushed But I haven’t posted any writing to tumblr yet, so here you are. Reader is gender neutral (tried my best but let me know of any errors) you’re basically a rookie spy at the BND ️️♂️ There is some vague, non explicit sort of smut. Have fun!
Three years ago, when you were a rookie, fresh out the womb of the government’s BND training programme, you had met him while you were shadowing one of the organisations top agents.
He hadn’t even taken the liberty of addressing you directly when the three of you met in the abandoned train tunnels, but he had peered at you from behind his shades, those black, sepia tinged squares of glass and gave you a singular firm nod. It was because he knew your weakness, he could discern your current standings, he smelled it on you like tigers did prey, you might as well have been a tiny, delicate, dainty wobbly legged fawn stumbling along after your handler as if they were mama Deer.
You were a sharper blade now though, sturdier and pluckier in every sense of the word.
Adler needn’t be a source of trepidation, he was an associate and you would be liaising with him for the sake of your job and the free world. You had been trusted to do so, albeit with the less than encouraging words, “Do not embarrass us, agent. You know who he is.”
Indeed you did, in the small inner circles of the BND, the man was a legend. You were privileged just to know he existed.
And here he sat in the Heidelberg,his long limbs sprawled out and propped up leisurely on the small red arm chair. He was slotted into the corner of the joint, at a small round table, another chair sat vacant opposite him. You glance at it with wash and swirl of dread in your belly before you powered forward, penetrating the cloudy hive of collective smoke from the patrons. Adler seemed to be contributing to the smog heartily as he huffed away, letting fluid like clouds billow from his lips with artistic flair and grace.
He did not acknowledge that he had seen you initially, he merely nodded, ever so slightly, to the seat opposite him.
“You’re early,” he comments flippantly, scratching a long, thin hand across his jaw absentmindedly, a hearty earthy sound emitted when he did this due to the faded stubble adorning his visage.
He had been clean shaven last time indeed, you only remembered due to your razor sharp attention to detail, not because you had been particularly fixated on his face and the terrains and markers that pieced it together.
And if you kept telling yourself that you might start to believe it.
You had forgotten however, the exceptional depth and richness of his vocal chords, like an abyss his voice was, bottomless and profound. It sliced through the flesh of any silence with such volition and authority it made your ears flinch.
On cue you glance up at the clock on the wall behind his head and raise an eyebrow at him. “By three minutes, sir?”
“Glad you can read a clock,” he muses, before gathering himself together, sitting up straighter, a rough clear of his throat as he does. “Got what I need then?”
You shouldn’t, but you do feel demoralised by his briskness, his stinging frost. You hadn’t been sure what you had been expecting, but perhaps you should have expected that he’d be a colossal prick after all.
A man like him, why wouldn’t he be? When you’re at the top, wasn’t it the done thing to do? To lord down on people? To stroke and pamper your own ego by wiping your boots with other peoples? You wasn’t entirely certain how you’d behave and move through the world if you were him.
“Yes,” you breath, reaching down into your black leather bag and thumbing around until you find a book, some romance novel you had laying around on your coffee table for months, the documents that laid sandwiched between the pages of said book were the treasure here however, your selection of literature needn’t have mattered. You slide it across the table to him. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” he scoffs, rubbing his thumb across the cover of the paperback painstakingly slowly. “This will really come in handy for all these lonely nights.”
You search his face for a moment, your eyes straining in an effort to see through the lenses, but there is nothing to be displayed, his face is pristinely still, the glassy mask on his eyes currently impenetrable. He leisurely pulls his hand up to take another ample pull at his cigarette, you take it as your cue, you begin to stand.
“Leaving so soon?” He ponders, tongue laced with feathery and amused surprised. As you are now stood up, looking down at him, you can see the beginnings of his retinas, you could just about make out that they were a startling blue. The man must have seen the ways in which you were trying to peak, so he reaches up and pulls the damned shades down the slopping, robust bridge of his nose.
He makes eye contact with you and it takes a grasp on you you, it squeezes you, the grip firm, sweetly and tenderly painful around your heart, gratifying like the way pressing down on an aged violet bruise is. “You sure you won’t stay for a drink?”
It knocks you for six, and you can’t suppress the gulp that travels down your trachea. It’s no big dramatic gesture, you tell yourself, but your body is not convinced. You begin to buzz, your nerves combust into licks of flames.” Well… I suppose I could have just one. But I have work tomorrow.”
“So does everyone else here,” He throws his hand up, palm towards the ceiling in a disdainful gesture. “Come on, I could use the company.”
Your eyes squint in scepticism at him and he lets out something of a delicate snort and shake of his head. “God damn what are they teaching you kids these days,” you hear him mutter as soft as gently trickling water, you barely hear him. I’m buying,” he says louder, stubbing his cigarette out. “What will you have?”
You felt put on the spot, so you shake your head. “Surprise me, whatever, I don’t mind.”
“Great,” he snaps, a hard breath through his nose as he does.
It’s just as you’re sitting down again, expecting him to be well on his way to the bar by now, you feel his breath right near you ear, and then his voice enters you and it sends lightning sparks up and down your veins. “It looks sketchy,” he murmurs, laying a hand on your arm. “If you sit down, pass me some shitty book and then get back up again. What do you think this is? Amateur hour?”
You let out a breathy little chuckle, ducking you head and shaking it. “The cover is that I give you the book… and that I came here to lend it to you. No one suspects a thing.”
“No one comes to the bar to lend someone a book and then leaves again without even having a drink, without even staying to chat,” he argues back insistently, not missing a beat, there is no malice woven into the seams of his tone, but there’s something testing and almost asking, mocking, like a elegantly arrogant professor egging on and challenging his students. It’s… enticing, alluring, it awakens some dormant yet restless little demon in your ribcage, to say the least.
“So hurry up and go and get me one then, super spy,” you say the last word extremely quietly, turning to him now, and it’s a power move by anyones standards, let alone yours, by your standards you’re staring into the mouth of a tiger. He lingers for a few counts, your noses barely an inch from each other, your breath begins to mix, the smell of his cigs and his alcohol wafts up your nose and you have to give your dizziness a firm push back. Finally, his lips twists into something of a smirk and he bends upwards and walks away.
By the time he is back again, you had grown vindicated in his absence, as if the break from his charm and allure had allowed you to come to your senses. The fireball moment of excitement has faded off into something bitter and icy, because of the insinuation that you were a halfwit, because of the suggestion that you were incompetent.
The man places a pint of beer in front of you and you glance up at him, you cut your eyes at him into mean spirited shards and you know you present indignant.
“No ones paying attention to meit’s you who attracts attention. People look at you, they really look at you. You should get surgery to cover up those scars,” you bite, you feel the snow lacing your tongue as you do and wish vehemently that contrasting hot pricks weren’t travelling up to tingle your cheeks. “They are extremely distinctive.
He raises his eyebrows at you and nods as he pulls a cigarette from his pack. “I’ve considered it. But in truth it doesn’t matter if people notice you, it only matters that you fit in.”
“Well, I reckon you’re playing games with me,” you retort, passive aggressive and snarky, bringing the beer up to take a first sip, and you grimace at his selection. “Trying to size me up. I’ve heard all the stories about you.”
“Is that why you come in here looking like a rabbit caught in headlights?”
That rendered you silent, you felt your jaw set tight and you picked up your drink again, staring into the glistening amber.
“You’re still a rookie,” he has grown quieter now and he has looked away towards the bar, he’s easing up on you. “How long has it been now?”
You look up at him through tired half lidded eyes. “Three years.”
“Yeah… you’re only beginning,” he nods slowly more to himself. “Three years, might as well be three weeks in spy time.”
You glance to the side to see the pair of women, the women in which you were referring to when you mentioned him attracting attention, are still eyeing him up, paying you little mind. You turn back to him, slipping him a sly, devious little quirk of your lips. “Think you’ll be going home with one of them? Or both of them?”
“I really try to avoid it while I’m on the job,” a glimmer of amusement manifests and warms up his face, he brings the tumbler of whiskey up to his lips before slipping the entirety of it past his lips and downing it swiftly. There is no flinch from him, he just presses his lips together hard before he settles into blankness again.
“You’re a rare exception in our line of work then,” you say.
“I’m sure,” he agrees lightly. “If your colleagues were more like me they wouldn’t have to sit around telling tales and spreading rumours like a bunch of stepford wives.”
You glance up at him in momentary astonishment, before you shake your head chidingly, but you ponder briefly that he may have a point, because the way the men spoke, or gossiped, or grumbled, or gushed, about him over at BND was all rather undignified and girlish.
You down the wretched beer and then stand, pushing back the tinges of tipsiness making its way to your senses, you look him square in the face and nod. “Thanks for the drink.”
“My pleasure. I’ll see you Friday. Be ready.”
As you walk out, you feel your mouth start to tug into a small grin and then it spreads across your whole face and you find yourself shaking your head again, involuntarily, as you mutter to yourself, “Asshole, what an asshole.”
-
The days leading to end of the week whizzed by you thick and fast, you anticipation seem to spurn it on, and before you knew it, it was 8pm, chilly and dark and you were making your way on top of a factory rooftop to meet him.
He smoked and peered down at the city, he wore what you wore, a snug black turtle neck, exempt he matched his with grey combat trousers, you wore blue jeans.
“Copying my style I see,” he had quipped, eyes grazing up and down your body when he registered your presence.
“More like you’re copying mine,” comes your quick witted retort, but couldn’t stop the gentle laugh that escaped your throat.
He had smiled earnestly at you, comfortably awaiting the light filled moment to pass before he turned serious, business, steely and professional in the blink of an eye, you had to whip yourself into a similar demeanour.
“There’s an East Berlin spy travelling into the city tonight, he’s been causing a lot of problems, I want him gone.”
“You don’t even want to capture him,” you side eye him warily as you wrap your hands around the icy cold railings. “He could be valu-“
“I know who’s valuable and who isn’t, agent,” he holds a hand up as he cuts in. “Can you follow instructions or not?”
You clench your jaw, your temptation to strike back is fierce and fiery, borderline uncontrollable, but you keep your wounded pride under bandaids and begin to nod slowly. “Yes of course I can, agent Adler.”
“Perfect.”
He checks over his shoulder at the ground below again before turning back to you. “He’ll have armed security. I’ll start taking them out, while I’m doing that, I want you to sneak into his suite and kill him.”
“Wait,” you perk up now, you feel your eyes grow wide and raw as you gaze up at him. “You want meto actually get the kill?”
“What’s your experience with a sniper rifle?”
“…non existent.”
“Exactly,” he replies promptly, still surveying the ground below. “And I already knew that. You’re better on the ground. I’ve heard your stealth is excellent.”
You glance at him, peaking at his side profile, the curved and sharp lines of his nose and jaw illuminated, highlighted, clarified by the murky industrial city lights. His honey wheat hair is different today, it doesn’t bounce and animate with every movement, it isn’t perfectly positioned and curated to suave insufferable perfection, instead it is slightly flatter, yet more fluid, pushed back away from his face to fall in waves and gather and end at the nape of his neck. It suits him, but it renders him quite a new variety of man, a more…more work less play sort of man.
“I get by on it,” you say finally, lowering your gaze as you begrudgingly contemplate the cumbersome and gruesome nature of your attraction, how it flutters against the walls of your stomach.
“Give yourself more credit,” he takes out a pair of binoculars and positions them towards the ground below once, you glance too and see a black car rolling in to the front of the hotel.
“There he is,” he confirms. “You ready, agent?”
You push back your shoulders and raise your chin, swallowing your nerves and doubts and pesky lingering trepidation of impending death, and nod firmly. “Yes I am.”
The man gives your shoulder a clap before turning away from you, beginning to position his sniper rifle to wreck havoc with the men from East Berlin.
Angel of death, slipped across your mind as you walked away from him. So beautiful, but what a dark creature he well and truly was. And you too, you remind yourself. You too were beautiful, and you too were wicked when it was time to be.
That’s why when you managed to more or less silently break into the man’s hotel room, up and over, through the window of the bathroom, you make him suffer.
Yes he had smashed a bottle over your face first, yes he had enraged you, but you could have just shot him with your silenced pistol, instead you take your time with this man and his gargled muffled screams were your solitary reward for it.
“It’s nothing,” Adler murmurs, you are both sat in his safehouse/apartment now. He speaks to you, his voice husky and absent minded due to him concentrating mostly on the cuts on your face, the deepest one being the nasty nick at the top of your lip, he dabs at this one with a wet cloth. You see his face now, his shades had been abandoned on his bed side table, you now get to witness his eyes squint and sharpen to coincide with the tender, effortful care he is showing, even the soft little furrow of his brow is so expressive, “Keep it moist, apply lots of cream to it, all day for the next few days, it won’t scar.”
“Yeah?” You chuckle tiredly. “Okay doctor.”
“Might as well be,” he quips, tilting his head at you and raising his eyebrows nonchalantly.
“Oh bullshit, a fucking doctorplease,” you scoffed. “You really love yourself, don’t you?”
“Who else is going to?”
You let the room fall into a gentle silence after that, when he is done with attending to your face, you both sip at beers he had in the mini fridge in his room, but you soon turn to him with a deciding sigh.
“I guess you have a lot of experience with injury,” you resort to. “You must have picked up a few things.”
“My ex wife actually taught me that about the scarring. She thought it could help mine,” he points to his face then. “Bless her heart.”
You watched as his eyes glaze, a transient fleeting few seconds of reminiscing, you wanted to take advantage of the little opening, the little opening of openness.
“How’d you get them?”
“Everyone always asks,” he brings his cigarette to his lips, eyes narrowing into cool consideration. “Everyone’s always so nosy about it. I don’t get it.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I don’t think so. I’d just put it down to bad shit happening to people and leave it at that.”
“Well we can’t all be as cool as you, Adler.”
You glanced up at his face, and you marvelled, because yes it was handsome, but there was something far more interesting than that, there was the almost immaculate duality. Like the strange and beautiful creature who lurked in the opera house, like Jekyll and Hyde, like hell’s fire and heaven’s celestial. You touched it, his face, you wanted to touch the battle torn half, you wanted to fill the diverse topography, the dents and dips and valleys, but you felt it a step too intimate, so you glided your fingers, as feather soft as you could, across the undamaged side instead.
The man doesn’t flinch, but he does slips his eyes onto you with a manner of frosty suspicion and cynicism, he searches your eyes leisurely, patiently yet intently as you continue your light caress.
You found the insinuation of confusion on his part confusing, because you had been ninety nine percent sure he had discerned your attraction to him by now, yet here he is now, coming across so precarious and untrusting, you felt like you were trying to win favour with a perpetually anti-social, precarious dog.
When you lift your hand away however, he does grab it, and not gently either, it is just outside a death grip and it hitches your breath in your throat. You refuse to look away from him, you hold firm, rooting yourself into the ground beneath you, not tearing your eyes away from his. “You’re still too green.”
“You mean… like, envious?”
“Too fresh, too trusting. I’m terrified for you,” he is muttering to account for how close your faces are. “You are…decent, but this life isn’t for you. I can always tell. Trust me, you’re either meant for this shit or you’re not. It’s not really something you can learn.”
“That’s bullshit,” you whisper back shaking your head, a sickened smile coming to your face. “I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I couldn’t imagine a life without this, without people like you.”
“Then you’re gonna hurt,” he tells you, his eyes have softened now, something faded and dim and quietly melancholic, like cloudy sapphires. “You’ll have to get chewed up and spat out again, and again, and again, until you’re tough and dead enough inside to be what you need to be.”
You felt your stomach drop, despite yourself, but you do not display it, simply grinning and rolling your eyes instead. “Why would you be worried about me? Spies get killed, we’re all just collateral to the top dogs like you.”
“You don’t know shit about me sweetheart,” he drawls, raising his cigarette up to his mouth.
“You’re right,” you murmur voice suitably honeyed, you lean in, a hand coming to grasp his thigh firmly to balance yourself. “I’m sorry.”
It is you who’s made the first move by doing this, the first negotiation into whatever transgression was going to transpire, but it is he who actually bites the bullet and kisses you.
A hand snakes around your waist, his thumb presses irregular shapes into your hip. The kiss is not what anyone could have anticipated from a man like him, it is substantial, but then it is also slow and delicate and feathery, his lips soft and patient and forgiving and almost somehow non intrusive against your own.
“I’d be pretty fucked off if you got killed actually,” he mumbles after he’s broken away from you, he’s talking into your ear now, before he presses a firm, deep kiss to your lobe which starts a wildfire internally and a heaviness and electricity darts straight between your legs.
“Why?” You breath as he starts to litter more kisses down your face, beneath your ear and across the bones of your jaw and flesh of your cheek, as gentle and tickling as water droplets landing and splashing onto you, when he reaches your neck you can’t stifle the little whine that travels up your throat, especially when he begins to nibble on the taunt, excruciatingly sensitive skin.
He has you. You hadn’t even realised how much he did, but he has you. You had melted into his hands, your body was subdued and limp and supple, your head was light, airy and drifting off somewhere as rapidly as a ballon set free into the skies.
You ached and throbbed for him, your heart nearly burst at the sneaking reminders that there wouldn’t be much more of this to come because he’d be long gone by morning. Tomorrow you’d lose him. It could be forever, you could very well never see him again and you’d never get to feel this ever again, you didn’t know.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs after a while, hand snaking between your legs to stroke the plush flesh, albeit through your clothes. “You’re different, and you’re so beautiful. I wanted you the moment I saw you, those few years ago. I’ve often times thought about you since then. I bet you didn’t know that.”
“Bet you didn’t know it’s all mutual,” you quipped back, almost aggressive, desperate and breathy as he caresses travel up higher, with no sign of stopping.
“Oh no,” he brought his head down, you felt his hair brush your temple, he chuckled, unabashed and right into your ear again. “Don’t worry, /I/ knew. I always know.”
“Well chances are you’ll probably never see me again,” you say, catching your breath and placing your hand on his wrist to still him, to catch your breath. You look up into his eyes, through your lashes, you feel sordid and dirty yet so powerful, so powerful over such a powerful human being
. “So are you going to make the most of me this time, or not?”
With his face gradually shifting into a slow, hazy smile, he takes the glass from your hand and physically moves you up to the headboard of the bed.
He takes his time with you, really takes his time. He kisses you for what felt like hours, pulling your body so it curves and moulds into his own so securely, you click together like puzzle pieces. When he enters you it feels like what he said, it makes you muse the reality that you both knew this would have to happen eventually. Mutual lust. To be able to express and display every iota of feelings left unsaid, finally. It was ripping off the bandaid, it was releasing dangerously built up pressure.
He growls sweet praises into your ear and strokes your face and even tells you that you’re his, and with that you wonder if he is acting out his fantasies, if that is what he truly desires, someone to be well and truly his and only his. Did he mean it in a wholesome, domestic sense? Did he mean it in hedonistic manner, did he truly want to ownsomeone? You didn’t know. You didn’t know this man, and you didn’t dare allow yourself to believe that, for whatever it was that his heart desired with every pump, it inherently involved you.
He just craves the intimacy, you decided. He craves passion and adoration, you were sure. In fact, this is what he needs, you consider as he flips you onto your stomach and you bury your face into the plushy cool, snowy pillows that smell of his woody, spiced cologne rendering them an aphrodisiac, who cared about the world that waited for you outside of this room, for now, you consider as he enters you and you moan out deeply, sweetly, this is all you both need.
And then after a couple of hours, you are both done, you lay in the amber glow of the lamplight and his vastly long arms, and this time you do touch his scars.
“It was Vietnam, they got me, pinned me down, pulled out some silly little knife,” he recounts, voice hoarse and low and deliciously thick, rumbling against your temple as you rested your head on his chest. “Luckily there was a squadron not too far behind, they saved me before they my throat got slit.”
He inhales deeply on his cigarette as his eyes pierce the wall opposite him. “It’s nothing more interesting than that.”
“Can you remember how much it hurt?”
“Every day,” he stressed, and then he pauses before chuckling easily, lazily, the sex had mellowed him out, softened and blunted his rough, razor sharp edges. “Fuckdid that shit hurt. Really really fucking hurt. Those God damn bastards.”
You laugh as well, his sudden display of humbleness endearing and lovely, it was a moment that you could be likened to the rarest of gemstone.
“I like you, Adler.”
“…Yeah,” he mused, gradually contrite and melancholic as he ran a rough, jagged skinned hand down your arm. “I like you too.”
You shut your eyes, fall in tune with his smooth rise and fall. “I’ll be alright, you shouldn’t worry.”
You fall into the most blissful sleep you’ve had since your were small, and then the daylight is creeping through the curtains and nudging your body awake, and as predictable and inevitable as death, he is coldly absent and you quietly fall apart.
my thoughts, and you have to understand of course there is something wrong with me, and if someone gets mad at me then im joking, is gerard still talks to frank and gerard still talks to grant and geoff and gerard has been known to talk to bert and i simply cannot remember the last time gerard or Adam lazzara have talked about each other and of course i don’t know what goes on behind closed doors but they WERE very close touring together and then just straight up. silence. huge coworker i gave a hand job to in the bathroom and now we can’t make eye contact energy
One year ago I started sharing my fan fiction online. I was terrified, but I did it, and now I’m so supremely glad. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the response I received. I’ve made friends, where before I only had one. I receive beautiful praise from lovely folks all around the world. And miracle of miracles, I’ve found the love of my life in @martymcdie88mph
Now, 252 stories later, I’ve reached a major goal. Last week I crossed 1.5 million words. And I have to say, I’m pretty damn proud of myself. Before returning to fan fiction last year I did nothing. I sat around and watched Conan and Bill content to slog through my days because I was so fucking miserable all the time.
But writing has transformed my life. I now have people. Real, actual people who care about me and ask how I’m doing every day. And I feel like, for the first time, I might even have a purpose. It may seem silly to some, writing explicit stories about tall, blue-eyed, assless comedy men to pass the time. But I have used fic writing to process my own trauma, to work through various heartaches. And I’m amazed at the responses from my readers. I feel privileged that people trust me with their own private struggles and ask me to write difficult things for them as well. I don’t know how to express my gratitude to everyone who has read my work, left kudos, commented, or made a request. All I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you!
Now, as Bill says…
Here are 25 (or more) fuckin’ hard ass, well run blogs I would like to thank for supporting me along the way this past year. I’m sure I’m leaving some folks out, and for that I apologize. Know that I love all of you more than I can say
Fandom: Bill Hader, Documentary Now!-Sandy Passage
Relationship: Vivianne ‘Little Vivvy’ Van Kimpton/Original Transmasculine Character
Summary: Vivvy reflects on the saga of her relationship with her transmasculine lover, Henry.
Note: This is not a new fic, but a story I revised for the Trans Day of Visibility (sorry I’m a bit late, editing takes forever) but I wanted to post some trans4trans content to celebrate
Custom edit to 'Be My Baby’ by The Ronettes thanks to the amazing and talented @stunninconan. Check out more of their work on Instagram at stunnin.conan
the relationship between the kink and queer communities is beautiful and they have done so much good together. i’m very thankful for all the kinksters and queers, present and past, who have worked to make our world a safer place.
warnings:18+,explicit smut, afab!reader x soft dom!joe
notes:just a brainrot/blurb for joe’s bday! it was yesterday, but it’s technically his birth month so
soft dom joe who will lay on top of you and rest most of his body weight against you, essentially trapping you from moving while he slowly rocks into you. his cock is thick and so veiny, he wants you to feel every ridge. loves how you squeeze him in, walls soppy and puffy, every time he pulls his cock back.
and the slow drag of joe’s engorged cock drives you nuts.when you mewl and squirm, attempting to jog your hips against joe’s to quicken the pace, he lays more of his body weight on top of you, rendering you immobile. joe chuckles when you whine and slam your fists against his shoulder, kissing you with an obnoxiously loud smackagainst your ear.
“patience, baby, lemme take care of you” joe murmurs, breath hot against the shell of your ear.
and if you act up again, joe slows his pace down even further. “behave”, he warns gently. and before you can groan in frustration, he gives a firm, upward thrust and your body goes limp.
when joe finally does let you cum, he murmurs encouragements of “m’ right here baby, i have ya” as you sob and tremble against him. peppers kisses all over your face, neck, chest, shoulders—everywhere. shushes every whimper with a kiss against your lips and smooths your sweaty hair back.
and the aftercare is—
this man won’t let you move an inch. joe showers w/ you—he has a separate lavender body wash and wash cloth just for you. holds you from behind and lathers the soap all over torso, placing kisses at the side of your neck while you try not to fall asleep. he loves the feeling of your breasts, sudsy and slippery, in his palms. he lets you know too! laughs when you sleepily mumble, “thank you”, back to him.
afterwards, he dresses you in one of his old t-shirts and half carries you to bed. you’re out almost immediately, gently breathing against his bare chest while he cradles you against him. he watches you fondly as you sleep, curled against his chest. now and then, he’ll smooth his hand down your back and it’ll jolt you out of your sleep a bit. joe apologizes, biting back a laugh when you give a sleepy sigh, letting your eyes fall close again.
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