#Lycra under shorts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1800titz · 22 days

Text

The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin.

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places.

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter.

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals.

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents.

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes.

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.”

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder.

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band.

“Can I grab you another?”

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip.

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth.

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?”

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice.

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures.

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc.

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation.

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth.

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again.

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split.

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation.

It’s a different story behind the door.

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges.

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?”

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again.

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together.

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.”

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.”

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.”

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway.

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet.

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters.

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing.

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to.

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana.

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.”

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph.

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough.

Eventually.

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat.

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock.

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.”

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing.

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head.

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader

486 notes · View notes

thevirgincherry · 3 months

Text

AND I LOVE HER !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. omg.. fluff and that’s it im sick, age gap, like brief mentions to sex idk, slight angst

note. don’t know what happened to me! ignore typos/mistakes this isn’t edited :3 rbs n feedback always appreciated omg im embarrassed ngl this is just leon feeling guilty as always

“Okay, and so we get bored, right?” You tell him, perched on the bathroom counter, peeling back your false lashes to reveal– you guessed it, your natural layer of lashes which look identical to the fake pair. “Like, there wasn’t a lot to do, I mean it was snowing, we couldn’t leave campus, we couldn’t even leave her bedroom, right?” Leon gives an Mhm to show you he’s listening and totally not dozing off to the sound of your voice. Sorry, babe, sometimes it just puts him to sleep. The same way white noise does. “We go on Bumble - you know what that is, right?”

“Oh, yeah, obviously,” Leon scoffs, when in fact he doesn't know what that is.

“So, yeah, we're swiping, swiping, not a single right, right?” Another Mhm from his side, you’re using a cotton bud to remove your eye makeup, the black smears and becomes streaky on your skin. Cute, that’s how you look after a nice, hard fucking. His mind wanders far away to the sanctum that is his bedroom, the room on the opposite side of the hall. “And so Ashley, you remember her, right?”

“Rings a bell,” It rings no bells, not a single one, the only Ashley he knows is ex-First Daughter Ashley Graham. “The short one?” All your friends are short, he makes a purposely vague guess to hide his disinterest. Leon would put more into this conversation if he wasn’t five seconds away from conking out on the closed toilet seat.

“Yeah, that one, her fucking boyfriend pops up!”

“From where?” He asks, genuinely concerned for your wellbeing, was the freak hiding out in his girlfriend’s dorm room, under the bed of some shit?

“On Bumble?” You shoot him an odd look through the mirror, “Anyway, his profile says some shit about an open relationship, that his girlfriend wants a threesome, like, all this shit.”

“That’s awful.” He gets the gist, the dude is a cheater, still has no clue what a Bumble is.

“I know, and he’s ugly, that’s the worst part, she’s out of his league.” You hop off the counter, running the tap to wash your face in that ritualistic manner. Scrub, splash, wipe. Shit’s obsessive, Leon’s only ever ran his wet hands over his face, uses his thumbs to get the gunk out the corner of his eyes. “She was totally upset,” You say, lathering your face in foam, “She wouldn’t stop crying, and don’t, like, tell her or anything, babe,” You rub circles on your cheeks, the soap bubbles up, the tap has been running five minutes too long.

“Wasn’t planning on it, babe.” Leon tips his head back to soothe the tension in his neck, when you cup your hands and splash water into your face, droplets splatter on the counter.

“Good, well, to tell you the truth, she was pissing me off,” A few more minutes of what looks more like a facial massage than a wash and you’re done, “Like, he was never even nice to her, he made her pay for dates, and she was really crying hard, Leon, like, snot and everything.”

“Lousy guy.”

“Yeah, and so we find a place that’s open on the map, like, a convenience store, I mean it was like gas and groceries, but it was so fucking shady, babe,” You pat your face dry with a towel, hanging it up on the rack, “And, like, we try to get an Uber, or like literally any cab at this point, but no one wants to drive in that weather, you saw what kinda clothes I took too!”

Oh, Leon did, and he did the right thing and warned you that tie-up tops and mini skirts so mini they could be classified as belts would do nothing for you. Well, they do everything for your figure, but nothing against the least windy of winds. Like a shaky orange leaf clinging to the weary branches of an autumn tree, those scraps of Lycra would go flying, leaving you topless and bottomless and defenceless without a Leon to take care of your sorry ass.

“So, I’m like so sure I’ve got frostbite as we’re walking, but it’s five minutes away, we keep going, none of us had an ID by the way, not even a real one,” The second part of your routine involves applying lotion so thickly, it secretes enough palm oil to give back to those Amazonian orangutans, solving the deforestation issue one nighttime routine at a time.

“Babe,” Leon says in the tone of a disappointed and slightly exasperated father who wants nothing but the best for his daughter while being emotionally distant all at once, because he just has that kind of voice, “You can’t be doing that, it’s dangerous, could get in a lot of trouble, and it’s bad for you, y’know?” His liver cries out in disbelief as it has been subjugated completely by his alcoholism, “You don’t need drinks to have fun, you just need your friends.” His words pass through you. Leon has changed the world through his Special Agent status, he’s saved it time and time again, what he has not done is change your world like he suspected he would with that half-assed motivational speech.

“So, Ashley, the bitch, she shoves me in front, and all the girls are like oh, you go up, you look soo much older than us, which is so fucking rude. Like, I know I look it, everyone says it to me, doesn’t mean she should say it. So, I go up, and babe - I swear to god, he doesn’t even ask, like, he just kinda looked at my tits and scanned the bottles.” You use your hands a lot when you speak.

He blinks at you bare-faced, and it all comes falling down, on top of him like gigantic Jenga blocks that he himself misplaced. “You’re a baby,” Leon tells you. Not in the way most older men do when they talk down to young girls - to make them feel like even younger girls. It’s not to put you in your place, after all, it is Leon that needs to be put in his place more than anyone. He says this with the utmost sincerity as he spirals head-first into a frantic epiphany of sorts. He’s fucking a baby. A baby with a heart-shaped ass and a penchant for clothes that cover a single nipple at best.

“No, I’m not a baby, I’m just not old,” There’s a lack of hardened lines on your face, not quite baby-faced, but visibly young.

“Yeah, okay, baby,” Leon pats your head, rolls his shoulders back to relieve him of an ache, “I’m going to bed.”

“So am I.” Your lips jut out, “I was going there first actually.” Holy Mother of God, you’re a kid. Don’t do this to him. Usually, Leon likes his women menopausal, Norman Bates would agree, that’s insensitive, rather Mrs Bates would agree. It’s just that when you’re forty-six, fucking older women goes into grandma territories. Women his age are beautiful, but half of them settled down over ten years back, the available ones are career women that keep him on his toes, and he doesn’t like that. Being kept on his toes is too much, his back hurts and he wants to rest. The other half come with kids, Leon would rather scoop out his brain with a tea spoon than come into close contact with a child. The appeal wears off either way because Leon wants them to be older than him, but he’s not twenty anymore so the older women won’t be forty and stern and beautiful in the way worn out housewives are, they’ll be sixty and senile.

“Were you now?” He keeps the bile down in his stomach where it should be, takes you to bed, fucks you into the mattress one last time, kisses the mole between your breasts and leaves the following morning. What drug was he on the night he met you? Leon doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know if he’s still on it, or if dating younger women is a side effect of it.

The car windows are frosted over when he makes his way out without a de-icer in hand, it melts slowly as he sits in the driver's seat with his head bowed, drooped on top of the wheel. Leon pats himself down, feeling for his keys, he gets out, into the elevator and returns to face the front door. He slots his key into the lock and enters the apartment because it is his apartment, not yours. He’s so used to walking out on people that he walked out of his own home. Selfish tendencies that surely stem from some fucked up part of his brain.

“Leon?” You’re stood there in the doorway rubbing your eyes, “Did you go out?”

“Yeah, babe,” He grunts when you take your seat on his lap, the weight is pleasant, grounds him, “I went out, just for a minute, had to take a call, didn’t wanna wake you.”

“I woke up the minute you got out of bed.” The softness of your skin on his is dizzying, sleep-swollen lips coming to kiss his scruffy face with all the tenderness of a young adult woman, that’s a lot of tenderness, they feel a lot. Heart might not be on your sleeve, but it leaks out of you in the most insignificant moments, it’s in every single word you say to him. “You’re not very quiet, Leon. I don’t know who hired you, they should reconsider.”

Smiling, he cradles your close, takes your tit in his hand. Love is stored in these things. That’s why your heart is in the left one, not on your sleeve. “Was I that loud?”

“Yeah, I heard you stub your toe, and you were like fuck, fuck, fuck! for a good minute,” You recount, “And then I heard you talking to yourself in the bathroom, and you were brushing your teeth, you kept making those gross gagging noises, my dad does that too.”

“Trying to get it all out.” Leon shrugs, his chin rests atop your head.

“Get what out? Your uvula?”

“No, stupid, just, I don’t know, stop asking questions.”

“Okay, whatever, and then you walked out still talking to yourself, and then you were looking for your keys, moving furniture,” That he was, “Sounds like you scraped up the floors,” That he did, “Then you found them and they kept fucking jingling, then you shut the door really quietly, and I was like where is this loser going. Hey, Leon, you know I can see your car from here, right?”

You’d seen him. Seen him throw a sulky manchild tantrum in his car. How embarrassing. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t know that.” He admits.

“Well, I saw you sitting in there, I know you didn’t go to the store, I know you’re lying to me, but it’s okay,” You kiss his Adam’s apple, your nose tucked into his neck, “I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean it,” Leon confirms, he holds you tighter to him and thinks that you're more mature than he’ll ever be. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” It comes easily to you, and he wishes to do the same, “You can talk to me instead of, like, trying to drive away from your own apartment, that’s pretty weird, Leon.”

“I know, I’ll talk to you,” He won’t, and you know that, and he knows you know that, but it’s okay, it takes time for this sort of stuff, “I love you,” Leon says again, his lips meet yours, swallows up the response on your tongue, he eats your love.

#leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil fluff #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy fluff

531 notes · View notes

covetyou · 5 months

Text

jester little bit more

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo x plus sized contortionist f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: clowns, vaginal fisting, protected PIV, inappropriate use of grease paint, drug reference, slightly subby Dieter, the hand tattoo, reader is referred to as Sparkles and has a briefly mentioned latex allergy. word count: 4.4k summary: Dieter drives you to distraction all day, so you go to give him what for, only to get more than you bargained for in return.

A/N: A gift to my beloved @sp00kymulderr - a simple mention of it a month ago (to the day!) is quite literally all it took to convince me to write a clown fist-it-fic, you are my muse, my inspiration. happy holidays bb

not clowny in an intentionally scary/horror way, but if you really hate clowns probably do not read. this is a different reader, same clown!Dieter to send in the clown.

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

ooh ahh, jester little bit, ooh ahh jester little bit more...

You notice it through your whole act - the burning hot stare of Bravo the Clown as you twist and turn your body into shapes for the awed masses. You never felt more beautiful, more alive, than when you were contorting yourself like this, soft rolls bunching at your sides, rippling fabric and making your sequinned costumes glitter under bright lights with each undulation.

It's when you see him start to adjust his red clown pants that you have to calm yourself, stop yourself from unrolling from your position, stomping over to him, knocking that stupid wig off his head and slamming him into the ground. You don't want to kick up a fuss, not in front of a crowd, and you just know the bastard would like it anyway. He usually did.

Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, you move through the motions of your set. Contorting this way and that, bending a leg here, twisting there, until you're taking a bow and hurrying backstage to give that fucking clown a piece of your mind.

But Bravo the Clown is nowhere to be found.

Probably in that filthy fucking trailer of his already. He never did like sticking around for the finale, always taking off his own performances, sometimes forgetting he even had two and leaving straight after the first was finished. So, you wait it out, standing with your arms crossed, ignoring anyone's attempts to communicate with you. By now they know the score - once Bravo the Clown had pissed you off, there was only one thing that would solve it.

You rush through the final bows of the night, plastering a sickly sweet smile onto your face before all but running back to the dressing room. No one bothers you, letting you tug off your costume in peace, the tight lycra slinking from your body and landing in a heap on the floor. Throwing on your shorts and a sweater, you stomp from the tent - your make up can wait, you're going to go talk to that asshole before he gets too high to function.

Approaching his worn trailer, you slam the flat of your palm against the old door. "Bravo! Hey! Asshole! Open up." The light is on and you can hear movement but you slam again anyway, imagining his face right beneath your palm as you smack it against the door.

The door wiggles, bowing a little where it gets caught on the latch, before flying open to reveal Bravo the Clown, who almost comes flying with it.

"What do you want, Sparkles," he grumbles from around an unlit joint. You snatch it from his mouth just as he's about to light it, and watch was he feebly reaches for it with a pathetic grabby hands and a scowl on his face.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Bravo?" you say, pointing your finger into his chest, pushing him back into his trailer and following him in. "Do you know how distracting it is, you practically getting yourself off in public like that? I'd be just as much to blame as you if you were caught, and you are not ruining this for me."

You slam the joint down onto his vanity, the discarded grease paints rattling with the force of it.

He looks so sad and pathetic like this, though maybe it's his choice in make up. He usually opted for a classic, simple clown face, but lately he'd been mixing it up. Today he has sad eyebrows drawn above his own, making him look more like a sad puppy than a man.

"You took the outfit off," he mumbles, huffing out a sigh of disappointment.

"Yes, Bravo, I took my work outfit off, now that I have finished working. You can take yours off too y'know, you don't have to live in this shit." You gesture to his obscene get up, the red pants still strapped up and his striped shirt still buttoned to the top, collar securely in place. The only thing he was missing was his wig, which was thrown onto its shelf with the others.

He smirks at you, a ridiculous gesture beneath all the make up, and starts to unbutton his shirt.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it."

"Whaddaya mean?" he says, rubbing his hands down the front of his shirt to get to the last button.

You roll your eyes at him. You weren't in the mood for this, you tell yourself. Not for him, not for any of it. "Quit clowning around, Bravo. Just tell me you won't do it again. I can't risk this job."

"No can do, Sparkles. Y'know, your ass looks huge when you bend backward like that. Can't help what you do to me." He's adjusting his pants again, just as he was back in the big top, only this time you can see the tent in them easily through the thin fabric.

"You can help it, and you will help it," you say in a low tone, walking toward him to jab your finger into his chest once again. "Or so help me, I'll have your ass kicked out of here."

"Hey," he says raising his hands in surrender. "Can't help that I know what you look like all bent up like that under that tight costume. Bet the crowd would like it just as much as I would if you didn't wear it at all."

And there it was. You fuck a clown one time - okay fine two times...three times, it was only three times - and now he won't let you live it down, constantly chasing you whenever he couldn't get his dick wet by other means.

"I know you like to pretend you don't want a piece of Bravo the Clown, Sparkles, but we both know that ain't true. Who came to who first? I know I wasn't the one desperate to get my pussy pounded. And last time? You were wet before you even got here, you were practically humping my leg before I even got anything off you. Even now, don't think I don't know how this is going to end. You're not mad that I find you sexy, baby, you're mad that I turned you on in the middle of your set."

You're going to actually fucking kill him. It doesn't matter that he was right, it was the principle. You snarl at him, ready to snap, when he's pointing between the two of you, a question on his face.

"Are we gonna hate fuck?"

"You are unbelievable."

He's pulling his shirt off and sliding his suspenders over his shoulders already. With his discarded shirt, he swipes the sad expression from his face, exposing his golden skin. He definitely knows where this is going. "You didn't say no."

"We're not fucking, Bravo," you say, crossing your arms. If this is how he wanted to play it, you were going to play right back. "You owe me. Big time."

His eyes light up, this could be the best day ever for him for all you know. "Oh, hell yeah I do. I've been bad, let me make it up to you. Please?" He's on his knees hands clasped together, pleading, before he even finishes.

You roll your eyes at him again, biting the inside of your cheek. He knew you liked him pathetic, but this was new entirely, and you couldn't hide how much you were enjoying it, even if you were still angry. You nod down at him, giving him silent consent to do what you suspect he's been waiting to do all day.

Bravo the Clown, never one to disappoint a captive audience, dives right in. Head first. Straight for your crotch. He pulls your shorts to the side, exposing your pussy to him and starts licking at you with abandon, digging his tongue as far between your legs as he can, eager to taste you. You have to hold on to his hair, still sweaty from his wig, to stop yourself from falling over.

It had been a long time, you consider. At least a few weeks. It was the least you could do, and he did owe you. And if you ended up having sex, what did it matter, it would be because it was what you wanted and he owed you.

You spread your legs wider, and Bravo moans into your cunt, nodding along as you hear him mumble thank you straight into your pussy. That does something to you then, and you throw your head back with a moan of your own just as he sticks a finger straight into your slick hole.

Your legs can barely take it, already strained and exhausted from your set, and now desperately trying to hold yourself up as a clown eats you out on his knees. He sense it, sees how your legs start to quiver before you're even close, and within seconds he's pulling you to the messy floor of his trailer. He pushes you down onto your back, and you let your body go limp as he dives back into your pussy mouth first, tasting every inch of you. It's sweaty business, being a circus performer, but Bravo the Clown didn't seem to mind. Quite the contrary, he seemed to love it, the hotter and stickier you were the better.

Pent up aggression had already seemed to do half the job for him it seemed, and when he curls another finger into your core you're shaking again for a wholly different reason.

"Fuck, so close. Keep going."

Between your legs, Bravo the Clown groans loudly. The sound is muffled, but that doesn't stop it from rumbling straight through you as his tongue swipes rapidly over your swollen clit. You grab his hair, your belly bunching and curling on one side as you reach for him. His hair is a mess, and your fingers tugging at the strands do nothing to help, but seeing him such a mess, framed between the thickness of your thighs makes you tug his face into you harder, bucking into his face as you go.

His free hand comes up to hold you, tattoo'd forearm pinning you down whilst his fingers grip your belly, creating soft little divots in your flesh with the pressure. You grab his wrist, fisting a fluffy robe discard on the floor in your other hand, anything to anchor you down as you get closer and closer to release.

It's the third finger that does it, slipping into you so easily where he'd worked you open with two, dragging his fingers from side to side to pull your walls apart, pushing down when inside you to make you feel fuller than you were. You're coming with your head thrown back and eyes squeezed tight, fingers clawing at his hair as his tongue continues its dance over your throbbing clit. Your hips go from chasing his mouth, pushing into his tongue, to desperately trying to be free from the overstimulation.

When he pulls back, his whole face is wet - forehead with a sheen of sweat from his efforts, and his lower face glistening with saliva and the wetness of your own cunt. The remnants of white paint caught in the creases around his nose are gone, likely smeared into your own skin and the matching halo of white around his face is further smudged into his hairline, looking like a mad professor streaked with gray where you'd dragged your fingers through his hair.

If you weren't still so annoyed with him you'd be licking it all off, tasting yourself mixed with the sweat on his face, paint be damned.

"Fuck, you look so good when you come, Sparkles."

He looks drunk, or high, or a combination of the two. You laugh at how ridiculous it is. A clown drunk off your pussy, fingers still slowly working away inside of you, your flimsy shorts still yanked to the side.

"Consider yourself lucky, Bravo," is all you say as you let your body flop back onto his floor. He shuffles forward a second later. Probably adjusting his dick for the millionth time tonight, you think.

When you finally open your eyes again, he's sat on his ass, his fingers inside you feeling more like a massage than anything else. You could, should, tell him to stop, but you're too boneless and relaxed to care. He catches you looking, and not a moment later a sly smile is pulling at his cheeks.

"You're so bendy," he says, wiggling his fingers in you. "And stretchy," he splays his three fingers wide.

"Bet you're stretchy everywhere," he says, waggling his eyebrows - his actual eyebrows visible for once now that he's swiped off all the paint.

"Bravo," you say as a warning. You knew what he was getting at. You'd made the mistake of making that little confession whilst high with him one night. It intrigued you, sure, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't tried to fit your own hand in yourself just to see, of course. But you couldn't quite reach, the angle wasn't quite right, and as flexible as you were, more than four fingers by your own hand seemed too awkward to fit. When he offered you a hand that night, you'd both descended into giggles and you thought it was all forgotten. Well, obviously not.

"Please," he begs, eyes softening behind the dregs of his eye make up - blue and smudged and looking more like icy bruises than make up now. You doubt your own looked much better, your eyes already feeling gritty from screwing them closed whilst covered in glitter.

"I owe you, remember?"

"...Fine."

It's with a triumphant look that he pulls his fingers from you, dragging your shorts down your legs and leaving a wet trail of your juices in his wake. He throws them into the pile on his bench, no doubt you'll have fun looking for those later, and he bends down to kiss the swell of your lower belly, thanking you in the process, before sitting back on his haunches.

You think you're wet enough, relaxed enough, his hand already coated with your slick, to take him. Bravo the Clown thinks differently, and reaches over to his vanity for the first grease paint he can get his hands on.

"Don't you -"

But he's already doing it, smearing a thin layer of white paint over the broadest part of his hand, almost covering the small tattoo by his thumb in the process.

" - dare." You sigh and he simply shrugs as if to say what before plunging two fingers back into your slick pussy, curling them up into you and dragging along your walls, making you fall back with a moan yet again. This fucking clown.

A third finger slips inside you, quickly followed by a fourth, and you're sitting up on your elbows on the floor of his trailer, watching him as he's singularly focused on your hole stretching to accommodate his digits. The triangular tattoo on his wrist may as well be a neon open for business sign with how it's directing his, and your, eyes straight to his fingers being slowly engulfed by your pussy.

A quick look up at you and a small nod of your head is all he needs to push forward, applying pressure to his hand and slipping it further and further inside of you.

You gasp when you stretch over his knuckles, your brows knitting together. Even with your legs spread wide, there's a small burn, a stretch, as he pushes into you. But then he sinks in past the hard ridges of his knuckles and his hand gives a little more, leaving you feeling impossibly full. You made a living off of stretching and twisting your body into seemingly impossible positions. There wasn't a stretch you hadn't felt, but this was something new - the ache of a stretch you'd never felt before.

"Amazing," he mumbles, fucking his fingers into you past the knuckle then back out again. They start to slip in with ease after a few moments, and you reach down between your legs to feel him as he pushes in.

"More," you moan, knowing only half of his hand is in you. If he hadn't smeared grease over his hand to lube himself up, you'd still be able to see that tiny tattoo. You wanted it inside you.

A slow push of his hand again and his whole fist is breaching you. He submerges his hand into your heat, the slick pooling at your entrance from your earlier release and the grease on his hand making his hand suddenly slip all the way inside of your pussy. If you felt full before it was nothing compared to this.

You whimper, watching him watch you as you take his fist.

"Oh fuck."

You're going to come again already. You know there's no stopping it. Especially not when he brings his other hand up to hold you still, swiping his rough thumb back and forth over your clit as he twists his fist from side to side, getting a feel of you from the inside out. You grab at his wrist, holding it steady and rock your hips, shallowly fucking yourself on his fist.

You feel the first spasm without warning, clamping around his hand so hard you'd expel him from your body if you weren't holding him so tightly in place. Your whole body quivers, quakes, shaking like some haunted hand puppet controlled by Bravo's fist.

Seeing stars, or maybe it's the glitter caught in your eyes, you fall back as you shake, the pulsing between your thighs unrelenting as you feel yourself gush and soak his hand. Your moans and twitches die down, and your death grip on his wrist finally releases.

Now that he's free, Bravo the Clown takes this as a cue to start up again, pulling his hand out of you in one continuous movement.

"Oh - nnhg."

Your back arches off the trailer floor at the slow drag of his fist, and caves back in when he pushes back in. You let yourself curl back up to watch again, too curious by how his fist looks moving inside you to fully give in to the fullness overwhelming your body.

Punching in and out, the rim of your swollen pussy stretches across his fist, and you watch, mesmerized and crying out, as the paint smeared on his hand fades and the tattoo usually hidden by his gloves comes back into view, only to make a disappearing and reappearing act inside of you. Before now you'd licked every single one of his tattoos, and now more than ever you wanted to do it again.

"Oh, god yeah."

"That good?" he finally asks, his voice thick and heavy. Looking up at you for only a second before being drawn back to your cunt with wide eyes.

"Your body is amazing," he says enthusiastically, as if you're the first person to ever be fisted, and he dives back in again to lick around your spread pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth with a wet slurp.

"Dee!" You squeal, falling back with a thud. You want to watch, you really do, but you just can't. Not when it feels like this.

"So now you know my name," he mumbles from around your clit, trying to suck it back into his mouth a second later. Your pussy is squelching, wet and dripping all over his hand, down his wrist, onto the floor of his trailer and whatever unfortunate item of clothing it is you're laying on. It's going to be soaked and you don't care. All you care about in the moment is his fist, still moving, fucking you so full and leaving you so empty, and the flick of his tongue over your clit.

"Gonna come, gonna come, Dieter, - oh, g- fuck."

He moans, nodding into your clit, shoving his fist straight into you and rocking it back and forth inside of you, leaving you full as he flicks your clit to orgasm.

You clamp down on him, pussy tightening around his entire fist as you come, spasms shooting through your pussy until you're a writhing twitching mess, begging him to stop the movement of his tongue. He does, but can't resist kissing your clit one last time, tongue peeking out to swipe across it, grumbling laugh leaving his chest when your entire body twitches at the act before collapsing into a heap.

He's breathing as heavy as you are when you look up at him a second later.

"Please can I stick it in? Please?" his eyes do that infuriating puppy thing again. You look down at him, still panting as his fist rocks in you slowly.

"Fine," you whine, the only reluctance in your voice from him having to remove his hand to get his cock in you. "But you know the rules."

"Yeah, yeah, wrap it up," he mumbles, pulling his hand from you with an ease you would've been embarrassed by if he hadn't got you so worked up and if the subsequent orgasms hadn't turned you into a liquid human being. He reaches over with the same slick coated hand to grab at a tin under his trailer bench. Opening it, it looks to be his weed stash, or what's left of it, but he knocks aside some loose rolling papers to pull out a gold packet.

"Latex free, baby," he says, shaking the packet between two fingers. It was sweet, really, that he remembered your allergy.

Dieter is pushing his pants down his thighs a second later, pulling his cock free from their polyester prison. You almost ask if he needs a hand, if he's hard enough, but a quick glance and you know. His pants have a wet stain on the front of them, precum leaking from the tip of his cock whilst he fisted you. From the looks - length rock hard, tip swollen and angry, slit still dripping for you - he's painfully engorged, desperate to relieve the ache in his cock with your warm, wet, pussy.

Tearing the wrapper with his teeth, he rolls the condom down his cock. As much as he owed you for distracting you all evening, you couldn't deny there was something about this man when he was a desperate, needy mess for you. It was your body that did this to him - the soft rolls of your belly as you contorted yourself, the swell of your ass as you bent backward, the broadness in your hips, the strength in your arms.

He fists his cock, and you watch him nearly lose it there and then. Biting back a laugh, you reach out, pulling him over you until he's slotted between your legs. Any other day and you'd be trying something more adventurous than missionary with him, but right now you didn't trust your limbs to keep you up, or Dieter to last more than a few seconds.

He lines up with your slick hole, and pushes in with a shaky breath, stilling once he's seated inside you. You think for a second that he might be asleep, but then his hips start slowly moving.

"Why d'you always feel so good?" he asks, face close to yours you can see the paint caught in his wrinkles more easily now.

"Magic pussy."

He laughs, raspy and scratchy in your ear, tucking his face into your neck. "Sparkles and her magic pussy. That's a TV special I'd like to see. Could probably pull a rabbit out of- oof."

You hit him, and it only makes his hips pump faster, snapping his mouth shut to concentrate.

The sound of the wet slap of his skin against yours fills the trailer, his balls squelching against your dripping cunt with each thrust. He's moaning and grunting in your ear, whispering about how good you feel, how great you looked, about that fucking bodysuit and how much he loves how wide your legs can stretch. At that, you wrap them around him, pulling him in tight to you, forcing his thrusts deeper. For as much as he pissed you off, you still trusted him, had an affection for him you would never admit to, neither publicly or to yourself.

"Uh - oh, fuck, Sparkles. Lemme. Please let me..."

Feeling between your bodies, he tries to touch your clit again. You knock away his hand, threatening to ruin his orgasm if he so much as tries to touch you one more time. He whimpers in your ear, settling his hand on your breast instead, squeezing and relaxing his grip as a distraction from his own orgasm tingling through his bones. You know what a threat could do to him and from the feel of him alone you know he's holding back more than ever. If his balls were any tighter and his cock were any harder you'd think he'd burst.

So, you do something you said you would never do for any man, and you beg, just a little bit, whispering softly and sweetly into his ear as his cock fucks you full.

"Come, Dieter. Come in me. Please."

And he does, groaning deep and low, deafening you in one ear with it as he empties his balls into the condom inside of you. You grip him hard, hugging him tight to you as he shakes on top of you.

He looks totally fucked out and ridiculous when you next look to the side and see him, face smooshed into the plush robe you'd been laying on. One of your own eyelashes is stuck to his cheek, along with a streak of glitter. You can't even imagine the state of your own face, but he doesn't seem to mind it when he finally peels open his eyes.

"You wanna get food and smoke pot?"

The man was a joke. Infuriating. A total and utter clown in every sense of the word.

But you always knew what you were getting with Bravo the Clown. It's what drew you to him, it's what made you trust him. Everything he did was written as plain as day on his face, or tumbling from his mouth in a stream of consciousness. Most of all, it was nice to be soft and pliable, as much as you were strong, with someone who wouldn't use it as a weapon against you.

And you would never say a single word of it to his face, opting instead to suck a hickey into his shoulder, tasting the sweat from his skin as you draw a bruise to the surface.

"Fine, but you're buying. You still owe me."

soz to my tag list for this: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo #the bubble fanfiction #fic: carnal-val #tw clowns #coveted fics

119 notes · View notes

skinskisurf · 1 month

Text

16 notes · View notes

themodernmarriage · 2 years

Text

Ruined Orgasms

What is a Ruined Orgasm?

I guess the biggest misunderstanding about ruined orgasms comes from the word “ruined”. It has a negative connotation. It suggests something unpleasant or unfinished. It's also often called a "touchless orgasm", which is more accurate I believe.

"Ruined" is simply inaccurate. A perfectly “ruined” orgasm is still an orgasm! It will feel profoundly different, but it will always be WONDERFUL – especially if you use it as a way to prolong your lovemaking! Males have been giving themselves orgasms for many years, but one thing that it is basically impossible for them to do is give themselves a "ruined orgasm". This, among other things, is what makes it so mind-blowing.

The basic concept is very simple, in theory at least. Let’s say that his point of no return (the precise moment, no matter what happens, once reached, the body gives the “kick-off” and inevitably triggers the orgasm) is very precisely seven minutes, then you must stimulate him for just under seven minutes (and not a second more). At that moment, release his nub and absolutely stop all your stimulation. As long as he doesn’t receive physical stimulation, his orgasmic reflexes will lead him straight to a ruined orgasm. Mission accomplished!

The key to a ruined orgasm is to find the right moment to interrupt the stimulation. Instead of “letting go at the last second”, you can stop much sooner. The goal is to leave him on the verge of orgasm, as if time were suspended, for as long as possible before his body triggers the ejaculatory reflexes. If you do it correctly his semen should just flow effortlessly drip down along his straining nub.

Do you see that “floating” moment, the time it takes for the semen to flow without caressing it? If so, congratulations, you’ve done it!

Benefits of a Ruined Orgasm

If done correctly, he will still be horny afterwards and will stay hard as a rock, still wanting more, even though he just ejaculated. Ruined orgasms are great when you want to give him an orgasm but still leave him horny when you lock him back up. Or, if you plan to have an all-night love-making session but you are afraid that he will cum to quickly, you can start your evening with a touchless orgasm.

He will experience no 'refractory period' after a ruined orgasm. Whereas a normal orgasm causes him to lose his erection and enter what is called the “refractory period” where he is no longer motivated to have sex, a ruined orgasm has the opposite effect – it causes him to stay hard, fully aroused, hyper-energized, and HIGHLY motivated.

His recover period will be MUCH quicker, and if you have sex after a ruined orgasm, he will last must longer too!

Most of the benefits of a long period in chastity (for you - i.e. motivation, energy, increased oxytocin etc) will not be lost after a ruined orgasm.

How to give a Ruined Orgasm

I'll start by saying that there is no 'one right way'. But this is what I like to do...

SETUP:

Tell him to lie down on his back.

Ideally, restrain his hands behind his back, or tell him to lie on his hands. Most males can't be trusted to not touch their nub at the crux of the ruined orgasm! Tell him he is at no point allowed to touch his (your!) nub. Throw in a blindfold for fun, if you feel like it.

Tell him you are going to give him a ruined orgasm, and that he should not cum until you tell him he can.

TIP: If you don't feel like direct skin contact or don't want any 'mess', tell him to wear tight lycra shorts or swim briefs, and then stroke him through the fabric, rather than have him completely naked.

PROCESS:

With your male on his back, take one hand (i.e. my left hand), and grip his balls and pull them away from his body until his penis is pointing up at almost 90 degrees.

With your right hand's index finger, stroke upwards (from the balls to the tip of the nub) slowly and deliberately. his most sensitive part is the area on the underside of his nub just before the tip. Stop just short of this area. It's much harder for a male to orgasm with an upward stroke as opposed to a downward one.

Keep this motion up for a while. Don't speed up - slow and steady is what you want, so that you don't drive him over the edge too quickly.

Every 10-15 strokes, slowly rub the sensitive area a few times, or gave a few circles along the head of his nub, and then to go back to the slow upward stroking motion.

If you feel his balls contract, or his nub twitches, let go with both hands immediately. Tell him to not cum - "no cumming... don't cum yet". Or you can ask him to announce when he is getting close. When he says "I'm close", let go with both hands. Count to 20, and then pull his balls away again and start with the slow upward motion.

Eventually (or soon, depending on the lockup period!), even letting go completely will cause him to go over the edge. Don't stimulate him at all at this point. The cum should ooze gently from the tip of his nub and down the shaft - no spurting, no major twitching... a perfectly ruined orgasm.

ADDED EXTRA: The second you see any cum being released, tap / slap his balls with the flat of your hand for 20-30 seconds or until all of the cum has been released. Be careful not to touch the penis at this point, only the balls.

Tell him to clean up and re-lock his nub immediately.

Bravo - you've done it!

As mentioned, everyone does it differently, but this is a basic 101! Trust me, he will be begging you for more in no time!!

Pro Tip: If your male is caged and you don't wish to unlock him for a ruined orgasm, use a vibrator or vibrating massager and simply place it on the base ring of his cage, underneath his balls. The vibrations will eventually bring him to the point of orgasm. Ensure he tells you when he is close to climax. At this point, stop the vibrations and cease all contact. If you time it right, his cum with leak out of the front of the cage in a perfectly ruined orgasm.

2K notes · View notes