Aaaaah I have to be honest Im a little tired of all the kinky shit, I just wanna have hard but loving sex with Jamie and hear him groaning in my ear all the things he loves about my body 🥺💦
Summery: Roman tries not to cum before he beats his personal record. Remus is trying to make him cum.
Word count: 372
Warning: RemRom, frottage, cumming in pants, little bit of dirty talking, un-beta'ed
A/N: First remrom fic. I can’t find many smutty ones so I’ll try to make a few myself 💚
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Roman sitting on Remus’ lap. They were both fully clothed and Remus had his tentacles out. He was holding Roman in place with two tentacles around a wrist each and his hand on his stomach, pressing lightly. The other hand was rubbing the bulge in Roman’s pants, stroking along the length, running a finger over the growing wet spot. Remus was mumbling filthy things in Roman’s ear, trying to get him to lose the little game they were playing. Roman had said he could keep from cumming longer than last time, but he was getting close and he was still more than 5 minutes from his record and Remus knew this. The other’s hard member rubbing against his ass didn’t help either at all.
“You’re getting close, my little prince,” Remus muttered in his ear, nibbing a little at the earlobe. Roman moaned at the nickname. “Are you sure you can beat your old record?” To add to the comment he ran a single finger over the length, stopping to rub at the tip, making Roman gasp and bucked his hips. Remus pressed him back down into his lap with the hand on his stomach. “Oh you love when I call you my little prince, doesn’t you?” He hummed. “So eager to prove himself, my slutty little prince.” Roman moaned at the nickname and praise. Remus knew just how to arouse him, how to get him off the quickest and he was using it all right now, so he’d cum before he reached his best time. He had to hold back, but he could already feel the pressure building too quickly.
“Re-remus, noo, I’m, I’m I-” Roman gasped and moaned as the other licked the shell of his ear and pressed down on his lower stomach, encouraging Roman to just let go. “Ca-can’t ple- aah.”
“Go on, Roman,” Remus purred, bucking his own hard-on up Roman’s ass as he rubbed the other’s through his pants. “Cum for me.”
And Roman gasped out a moan of Remus’ name, his pants growing even wetter from his release, warming his crotch and Remus’ hand. His head fell back onto Remus’ shoulder as he was basking in the afterglow of his release, gasping for his breath.
Summary: You’re an upcoming actress invited to the awards, present to support your cast and crew. Adam Driver is nominated and present as well, appearing dapper and handsome as ever. Little did you know, Adam has heard of you – far more than you could ever imagine.
Author’s note: Anon requested public sex, but I don’t see our man AD having full on sex immediately with his muse. Instead, there’s dirty talk and a lot of build up for the obvious smut in part 3 💖.
Not to be upfront- but dear god, I just want Dark to use me as he wants. Coming home and that emo bastard is there, handcuffs, ropes, blindfolds etc. He just takes me and rides me to no end. Whispering the sweetest things to me, despite his dirty actions. I just want him to grab my ass and tear into it, leaving no room to spare as he cums into me as hard as he can, yelling out to no one. Then,, just leaves like the emo bastard he is.
Helena Attlee, The Land Where Lemons Grow: The Story of Italy and its Citrus Fruit
It was clear that in the gardens of the Medici the lemon had been an infinitely protean thing. Its yellow skin might have been patterned with broad green stripes or split to reveal a second fruit nestling like a Russian doll inside it. Its shape was equally inconsistent and I found a double-breasted lemon, a pair of Siamese lemons, joined at the stem, their surfaces painstakingly stippled to give the impression of the skin’s open pores, and lemons with horns. The other fruit in the collection had been subject to equally fascinating and peculiar mutations, and in the depths of the box a huge citron cowered, its side smashed to reveal plaster-of-Paris guts. The essential oils in the skins of real citrus fruits make them shine, but the fruit on the table had matt, dusty pelts. They looked like a gathering of sad, citrus ghosts. Eight of the casts had been restored and labelled, and they were just as colourful as I had expected. Someone had wrapped them in tissue paper and put them in a wooden fruit tray, as if restoration gave them the rights of real fruit.
