#cw: sex negativity

[aro-culture-is]

Alloaro culture is wanting a similar word to qpr for a committed partner you have sex with sometimes that is not romantic: qpr isn’t right because it has the word platonic in it.

hi! in a very gentle way, i am vibrating to let you know this is incorrect :)

from the POV of someone who's been around the aro community since ~2013-2014 on tumblr, the only time i've seen folks start to say that qprs couldn't include sexual components has been when

they've learned an incorrect definition of QPRs, or

in one particularly notable case, the individual proposing it turned out to be quite sex negative and upset at the mere thought that people could think that qprs could include sexual activity. this individual suggested an alternative term for individuals desiring sex in QPRs in a rather explicitly alloarophobic measure. when gently called out from what had seemed to be a genuine attempt at coining a new term, the above came to light. smaller cases of this pop up every once in a while, but this one got some notoriety.

queerplatonic was always meant to mean "queering the idea of a platonic relationship", "queering the idea of what a relationship means", and by explicit definition, has always been broadly and radically inclusive. any relationship, so long as the partners involved agree it is a queerplatonic one, is queerplatonic. no exceptions. this can mean it involves romance, sex, traditionally platonic elements, and anything and everything those involved desire out of it.

tldr; the word platonic is in queerplatonic to say it is counter to the idea of a restricted "platonic" relationship.

[obstinatecondolement]

Honestly, this is probably not a hill that someone who hasn't had sex in as long as I have should be dying on, but this pervasive conservative mindset of "you have to be in love and in a long term relationship or else having sex is icky" is kind of what always made me bristle about the "love is love" slogan.

Like. Okay. And what if someone isn't in love? Is it okay to discrimate against them then? Is it okay to call men who fucked around in the 80s homophobic slurs and say they deserved to die of AIDS if they were having a lot of casual sex with people they weren't in love with and became HIV+?

Fuck that! Fuck that and every single appeal to care about the AIDS crisis because of the "innocent" victims who just had sex with a Liar one time, or people who got filthy contaminated gay/drug addict/foreign blood in a transfusion that was shoved in my face growing up. No one then or now deserved to get the virus and I don't give a shit how they got it! They were all innocent victims!

Which isn't even getting into the "so is it okay to bully single and/or aro queer people?" of it all, or where trans people fit into this "love is love" paradigm when having a sense of dissonance between your assigned gender and your internal sense of self has fuck all to do with heteronormative conceptions of romantic love.

[unboundpower]

op here ate with this post imo, and this is honestly pretty relevant to amita (and to myself) so i'm gonna post screencaps of it here-

[kxllerblond]

spends my last hour ranting about how the cod fandom replaces the only black dude on the team with some mULTIPLAYER CHARACTER not even in the main game. an hour well spent tbh

[storytellersumayyah]

a softer shade of blue

cw: discussions surrounding gender identity, lightly implied homophobia, negative body image, sex, discomfort around gendered terms, reference to past dubious consent (not between main pairing), tristan fears that wanting "feminine" things will mean something he doesn't want it to mean

spoilers: tristan wants to wear lingerie. he doesn't want it to change anything about who he is, and struggles to reconcile the two wants with each other. it ends happily and doesn't need to mean anything more than what he wants it to mean (which is for him to look pretty.)

Tristan realises he liked to feel pretty at some point in his life he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He’d known he was handsome, but then he’d grown into his features, and he’d observed other people, and he had realised that he wanted to be pretty as well. Beautiful seemed like something out of his reach, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that, but prettiness was easily attainable for him.

But he doesn’t want anything else. He doesn’t want princess to be used as a way of referring to him. He doesn’t want to be someone’s girl, even if it was just a roleplay and nothing more. It made his skin feel tight and uncomfortable. It makes him feel like his body wasn’t his own, which was something he swore he will never feel again.

So he hides the things that made him feel pretty from people he didn’t think would handle the words with delicacy. Like the pearl necklace an ex-girlfriend had brought for him after he’d not stopped staring at the image on his phone. When he’d tried to deny wanting it, she’d frowned and said it was just a necklace. And it was.

He hides the shirts that were slightly too large, and the shorts that cut higher than most.

He hides the make-up.

And then Rafael rashes into his life. And for all the snarky remarks, and all the teasing comments, and all the bickering, they never once comment on his appearance, unless he looked hungover (he wasn’t, which was why it was annoying). Even when Tristan forgot to take his nail polish off before a tutorial, they didn’t say anything. They just looked down at his hands and back up, and then they smiled because he’d been panicking that this was going to go too far.

He thought things might change when they started dating. It was one thing for someone to exist as they were, but it was different when they were so close to you. Or at least, that was how his parents had always made him feel.

But they don’t.

At least, not when he wears jewellery. And then nothing changes when he wore one of his favourite shirts. The one that always slips off his shoulder if he didn’t adjust it constantly.

When he wears make-up, all Rafael does is compliment him.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” they whisper under the cover of night a few days later.

Tristan frowns. “With what?”

“Your beauty.”

Rafael is so calm, and so relaxed about it, that Tristan almost believes it could be that simple. Almost, but not quite.

“It’s not- I don’t want to be anything but who I am.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you think that’s strange? It’s just… something. It’s not really anything.”

“Tristan. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You like being pretty, and that’s all it has to be. If you want it to be something more in the future, that’s fine. And if you don’t, that’s also fine.”

“It meant something for you though.”

Rafael cradles Tristan’s hands in his own. Tristan always likes it when Rafael holds his hands. Theirs are bigger than his, and he likes how small he ends up feeling. Because he’s chosen that delicacy for himself. And if one day, he wanted to feel bigger, if he didn’t want Rafael to overwhelm him in all the best ways, they would step back.

“It did. But that’s because I’m me. You might be different. This isn’t a children’s puzzle where everything fits neatly into its slots.”

“I like the way you describe things,” Tristan confesses. It’s not the priority, but he needs to say it.

Despite the darkness, he sees Rafael’s smile.

“Do you know how to do eyeshadow?” Rafael asks suddenly. In all honesty, Tristan had assumed they’d fallen asleep given the slowness of their breathing.

It feels embarrassing to admit at the age of twenty-six but he shakes his head. “Was never patient enough.”

“I have a palette that will suit your undertones better than mine. I’ll do it for you.”

It is such a simple act, but it does so much for him. He grins and nods. “I’d like that a lot.”

Tristan tells himself that will be enough. To wear his make-up, and his jewellery, and the clothes. There is nothing else he wants, because Rafael always said he was pretty when he made the effort to be so. But they also always call him little prince, always say this is his future husband, and never question why Tristan wanted that and nothing else to be used.

And it is enough.

Until it isn’t.

He’s out shopping with one of his friends. She’d told him he could wait outside if he was uncomfortable going into the lingerie shop, but she needed to go because her anniversary was the next day and she wanted to surprise her girlfriend. He’d frowned and said he didn’t want to stand outside looking creepy, so he’d gone in with her.

She goes to try on a set, and he doesn’t want people to think he was in the queue, so he stays on the shop floor. The designs re stunning. They are meant to make people feel good. And pretty. Maybe, if the person was right, beautiful.

So before he knows what he’s doing, he is picking up a piece of blue lace, rubbing the material between his fingers. Despite its lacy appearance, it feels comfortable. He wonders what he would look like with it on. Probably ridiculous, but maybe not. Maybe he will look like one of the models. Maybe he will look perfect, as he is sure his friend will.

“They have a men’s range, to account for the differences,” she ays from behind him. The items she’d chosen are packed in a discreet bag. It shocks him, how lost in his mind he’s gotten.

“I’m not a girl,” he blurts out.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be a girl,” he continues. He has no idea why. He just didn’t want her thinking it’s something it isn’t.

“I know.”

“If I’m not a girl, and if I don’t want to be a girl, if I still want to be Tristan who gets referred to as little prince and boyfriend and your favourite brother even though you’ve got two, then I shouldn’t want it. I can’t want it. I’m not allowed to want it. It’s different to everything else. It’s more. It’s not- it’s not for me. It’s- I’d be taking it away from someone who had to struggle with all those big feelings and-“

“Shh, shh. Let’s go and sit down somewhere,” she says.

He nods, allowing her to guide him to somewhere quiet.

“Why aren’t you allowed to want it?”

“Because-“ he suddenly pauses. He doesn’t have a reason. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly. When you picked it up, how did you feel? I don’t want to know how you ended up feeling, or how you think you were supposed to feel. I want to know how you felt in those initial moments.”

He thinks about it. “I felt like I would be pretty. Maybe ridiculous, but maybe pretty.”

“What’s wrong with wanting that?”

“Nothing. I just- it’s not a thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be a thing. You know that.”

He can’t find the words, and it’s frustrating him. She is just trying to help. It isn’t on her to try and read his mind.

“Is it because this is clothes? Specifically aimed at women?” She asks, gentle and non-judgmental.

He freezes. “I’m not a misogynist.”

Even though she tries her best not to, she starts laughing. “I know.”

But she’s right. Even though the make-up was always advertised on female models, even though the jewellery sometimes came from the women’s section of the shop, it is different. feels felt different to him, even though it’s probably the same to everyone else. The shirts he brought to feel pretty have always come from the men’s section.

“I think it is. Because it’s clothes. Aimed at women,” he says, feeling pathetic.

“You don’t have to do it. But you should not do it because you don’t want to. Not because you’re punishing yourself for wanting it. There’s no heroicness in suffering. There’s just suffering.”

Hearing her say that makes him realise his other fear.

“I don’t want Rafael to look at me differently.”

“But are you doing this for them or for you?”

It is an easy answer. “Both of us. I want to feel pretty in something that’s almost a secret. People can tell when I’m wearing make-up or jewellery. They wouldn’t know if it’s that. But I want him to think I’m beautiful. He’s never called me that before, and that’s because I haven’t wanted him to because it feels too close to something. But I want him to call me beautiful and have it not be anything more than that. And I don’t know if he will.”

Rafael will. Rafael will never go further than Tristan wants. Even if he doesn’t understand why something was so important, he will accept it without question and only ask if he’s unsure. Tristan knows he deserves more credit, but it is the age-old anxiety.

“Then you need to tell him that. Tristan, there’s no deadline on this. You can do as much or as little as you want, and you only need to do it when you’re ready. It will always be there waiting for you.”

He smiles. “I know. Thank you.”

“Of course. Now let’s go get some lunch, yeah?”

He nods, stomach rumbling as if on cue.

She sends him a link that evening.

For whenever you’re ready.

He opens it on his phone. It is designed like the average clothing website, which he appreciates. He still only gets through two rows of three designs before he closes the tab, suddenly too overwhelmed to do any more than that.

If Rafael is aware of his inner turmoil he doesn’t comment. Tristan appreciates the space because it comes from a good place.

Eventually he grows tired of his hesitancy. Rachel, his best and only friend from college, always said she responded to situations that terrified her with five seconds of bravery. Five seconds is nothing, but it is enough to start. And once she started, things weren’t scary anymore. They were just something she was doing.

So he waits till Rafael goes out and he filters by his size and the colour blue. White feels like too much, and he knows how good blue looked on him. Some of the items are still too far out of his comfort zone, so he filters those out as well, in order to make sure he actually places the order.

Confirming the purchase doesn’t make him feel sick as he thought it might have. If anything, it makes him feel relieved. He could want something, and take it, and the world wouldn’t end.

When the parcel arrives, he puts it inside his bed drawer. He isn’t ready to wear it yet, but he doesn’t feel guilty about that.

Sometimes he takes it out and looks at it. Once, when he feels especially brave, he holds it up against himself. But then he sees his reflection in the mirror and he has to put it down. Has to put it away in his drawer, underneath the rest of his clothes. Which are all meant to be worn by him.

Holding it up, he looks stupid. He looks like he is playing dress-up. He isn’t delicate or soft enough. He isn’t Rachel, or his friend. He is calloused hands and hard lines and roughness. He isn’t pretty enough, and he never will be, no matter how badly he wants it.

Rafael inds him sitting on the bedroom floor, tears flowing from his eyes.

“My little prince. Mi corazón. Come back to me whenever you’re ready. Come back, and we’ll make it all better. I swear.”

It is an impossible promise, but he managed to breathe.

“My good boy. He’s so brave,” Rafael says.

Tristan smiles. “Raf.”

“My little prince.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m not. Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head immediately. “But I want to take care of you. You’ve been running yourself ragged and I need a distraction.”

Rafael has learnt to trust that Tristan will be honest. So they nod, smiling as Tristan leads them to the bathroom and runs them a bath, complete with a hair wash and snacks. And then Rafael looks up at him with loving eyes and a perfect mouth and asks to take him to bed. Tristan nods, needing to feel close.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against Tristan’s stomach.

Tristan whimpers. He isn’t wearing make-up. He’s taken his jewellery off. His clothes have been discarded somewhere- probably in the bathroom. He is sitting in Rafael’s lap, legs trembling and completely overwhelmed. And yet, Rafael thinks he is pretty.

“Was that okay?” They ask, suddenly remembering that they hadn’t really discussed this.

Tristan nods. “Perfect. It was- you were- you can say that. Even now. Promise.”

Rafael nods with a smile, ducking their head slightly to press light kisses to his skin.

Tristan takes the items out of the drawer the day after.

He repeats that for another month.

And then he decides to be brave for another five seconds.

He changes, but he doesn’t look in the mirror. He isn’t ready for that yet.

“Tristan, I’m back!” Rafael yells.

Tristan swallows. Then he covers himself with the blanket, making sure none of what he is wearing was visible. “I’m in the bedroom.”

Rafael immediately enters, sleeves rolled up to his forearms and feet bare. “Well hello there handsome.”

Tristan can’t help but laugh. “I have a surprise. And you can use feminine descriptors, but no feminine nicknames okay? And you can’t laugh. If you don’t like it, you can tell me, but don’t laugh. And it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a thing. It’s not something.”

“I would never laugh at you. I think I might know what you mean, which is why I’m asking this. Do you feel good?”

Tristan thinks about it. He’d been stressed about accidentally seeing his reflection, and what he would do if Rafael decided this was too much, and that had left him with very little time to consider how he was actually feeling.

“I think I do. Yes.”

Rafael nods. “Then that’s all that matters, mi corazón.”

Tristan has heard the words so many times that they were finally starting to sink in. So he takes a deep breath, and he tells himself to be brave. Just for a few seconds. And he unravels the blanket, leaving him in the items that had come so long ago.

Rafael’s breath catches in their throat. “My god, Tristan.”

He blinks, not expecting him to be so enthusiastic. “Do you like it?”

Rafael steps forward, then hesitates. “Of course I love it. You look- you look beautiful. Stunning. Tristan. You’re a piece of art.”

Tristan feels the heat rise to his cheeks. “Do you really mean it?”

“My little prince. When have I ever lied to you?”

Prince. Because that’s what he is. “Never.”

“Exactly. Can I- can I touch you?”

“Please,” Tristan begs. Rafael’s gaze is an overpowering thing. He needs more.

As though he’s been released from chains, Rafael surges forward. But then he kneels down in front of the bed, looking up at Tristan as he lifts a stocking-clad leg to balance on his shoulder, pressing gentle kisses from his ankle upwards. Tristan exhales shakily. Even though it is through the fabric, it is setting his skin on fire.

“You look so delicate. So fragile. I almost- I’m scared I’m going to break you,” Rafael whispers.

He whines. “You won’t. You won’t- you know you won’t so just-“

Rafael shushes him gently. “I know, my little prince. You’re the strongest person I know. But I still want to be careful with you. You’ll give me that won’t you?”

Tristan can never deny Rafael anything. He nods. “Always.”

“Thank you, my beautiful boy,” they say, pressing several kisses to his inner thighs. Tristan squirms, but Rafael places his hands on his hips and pushes down, trapping him against the mattress.

“It’s so soft,” they whisper, in reference to the fabric covering him. It is slightly stained, but Tristan doesn’t want to take it off. Not just yet. It’s why he makes a sound of protest when Rafael goes to tug it down his legs. They immediately let go.

“Don’t stop. Just don’t take it off yet. I don’t mind the feeling,” he says.

Rafael nods, pressing one final kiss to his hip before moving up to kiss his mouth, deep and slow and perfect.

“Did you tie this yourself?” He asks, placing his hand on Tristan’s back, right over the corset ties, in order to raise him slightly.

Tristan nods. “Want you to do it next time.” It’s nice to say there will be a next time. Every other item had felt overwhelming, or too much, but the corset had felt right. And tying it had felt nice, even if it was just so the ribbons weren’t just hanging loose.

“I’d be honoured. Do you want to leave it on?”

He shakes his head. “Want you to take me apart. Feel ready now.”

“Mi corazón. My little prince. My beautiful, beautiful boy. Thank you. For this. For trusting me, always. For everything.”

Rafael undoes the corset ties with such care, and with kisses to every part of exposed skin that Tristan can’t do anything more than close his eyes and let the sensations overwhelm him, in the best way possible.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than when you’ve been spread out underneath me, unable to hide how good I’m making you feel,” Rafael says. And it should’ve been awful, should’ve killed the mood or sounded like a terrible pick-up line, but it doesn’t. It sounds good and honest and true. All the things that Rafael is.

The word beautiful penetrates the haze that Tristan’s mind had become. He goes lax in Rafael’s hold.

He feels good.

He feels the way he had been craving for so long.

And it isn’t because Rafael is encompassing him from every angle, so gentle, like he really does think Tristan is something that could break.

It is because he feels comfortable in his skin. He feels pretty, but he still like himself. He can have what he wants, he can have it mean as much as he wants it to, and he can be happy. He can wear lingerie and still be Rafael’s boyfriend.

But more than that, he can be beautiful. And nothing will change.

It is like Rafael read his mind. “Tristan,” they exhale. “My beautiful, little prince.”

He goes tumbling over the edge, safer than ever before as Rafael never lets go of him.

When he comes around, Rafael is wiping him down, pyjamas already on the bed.

“You scared me a little,” he says.

Tristan rubs his eyes a little. “Sorry.”

Rafael shakes his head. “It’s okay. Wasn’t too much, was it?”

Tristan considers. “Liked it. And it wasn’t. Was good. Thank you. For always being good to me.”

Rafael shifts so he can kiss Tristan’s forehead. It is that, over everything else, that makes Tristan melt into him. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Tristan smiles, bringing his arms up to wrap around their back. “I love you.”

“I love you too, my little prince.”

And in that moment, Tristan knows that nothing he does will ever change that.

buy me a ko-fi! | read my novel!

[aro-culture-is]

Aroallo culture is constantly feeling like a degenerate

I have... more than a few things to say on this topic, but I will restrain myself to the two major points that have caused me to delay posting this.

For one: Internalized sex negativity ahoy!

In all honesty? I genuinely do not understand how sexual attraction without romantic attraction (or any other form of attraction, really) is supposed to be bad. I genuinely cannot tell you how wild it is to think that sexual attraction, one of the instincts that has generally been selected for among all sexual species similar to us, is somehow... morally incorrect? How much must we hate ourselves, see ourselves as the monster in a bedtime story, for the invisible Thought Crime of feeling like another person is attractive? It's okay. Literally the only "bad" is if your actions in response to a feeling are performed in malice or cause harm, and even then there's nuance that requires thought and communication, not mind-reading and assuming others will be disgusted.

Sincerely, please please please look into sex positivity. Read about it. Follow sex positive accounts, movements, and people. Let yourself feel in response, and ask yourself what does and does not speak with you. Engage in the topic. You don't have to believe it right away, but I promise you, it is well worth your time to expose yourself to resources that teach you another perspective that does not demonize the vast majority of the world in some strange and non-productive way, producing shame and little to show for it.

Secondly... degeneracy.

What a very, very loaded word. To summarize some points from Wikipedia, in terms of fact: the concept of degeneracy in this usage originates from the 19th century theory of social degeneration. The concept of heredity had yet to be fully understood in social degeneration's 18th century development, and this movement largely believed that habits of parents changed their child's biology. This, in turn, was used to explain a perceived decline in civilization. It took little time for the theory to appear in medical and zoological works, with the intent to explain why different ethnic groups exist. You may recognize this concept by a directly related one: eugenics.

The theory of degeneracy first grew fame when used to explain racial differences, and quickly spread from the medical field to psychiatry (ie, mentally ill individuals will produce more severely mentally ill children, and therefore should not continue their lineage) and criminology (particularly when combined with phrenology). It was associated with authoritarian political attitudes such as militarism, scientific racism, and support for eugenics. The development of degenerate theory both partially predates and partially follows the works of Gregor Mendel in describing the theory of evolution, and frankly, largely based its so-called scientific backing on incorrect understandings of evolution and poor science, using such understandings to prop up eugenicist beliefs.

Why do I say all this? I think it is very, very important to recognize the sociopolitical bullshit that props up the absolute pseudoscience that social degeneracy revolves around, and to state that anyone who truly believes in degeneracy does not actually have the best interest of other's in mind or heart except that of the current in-groups. if people in your life are using these theories and words, I want to empower you with knowledge that they are, scientifically and historically, very much in the wrong. I want you to be able to look at their words, and understand the context behind their beliefs, even if they themselves do not.

also, real talk: if you can, form other social networks. join a club, play social games, go to community events, anything it takes to experience people outside of those who give you this message. it'll do wonders for you to build social circles outside of that stuff.

tl;dr:

the origins of the theory behind the word "degenerate", as used today, are scientifically bullshit, politically and socially motivated, and largely were used to justify eugenics. i would recommend not trusting people who genuinely believe in degeneracy to have anyone's best interest at heart but their own, and that you are perfectly normal and fine as you are.

[shmpxx]

CURSED SPIRIT — y.o

⛤ curse! yuuta okkotsu x fem! reader

yuuta okkotsu being your one and only curse.

cw. smut. unprotected sex. creampies. multiple orgasms. groping. dry humping. public sex-ish. fingering. slight oral (f. receiving). overstimulation. thigh fucking. somnophilia. possessiveness. yandere tendencies. mentions of violence. +18!

wc: 1.2k

a/n: inspired by @deviants-forest work! etc. (go check it out) also happy kinktober! :)

Curse!yuuta who creeps up your back, his hands finding your waist and his lips tickle your ear as he’s whispering how much he needs you on a subway train to home. “Not now…” you whisper over your shoulder to him trying not to be noticeable by others who crowded you and payed no mind, too busy on their phones. You bit your bottom lip when he presses himself against your ass in one movement already having your blood rush like crazy. You try to keep your composure like nothings bothering you but yuuta’s hard on humping into you desperately, whining in your ear and his cold hands reaching under your shirt to grope your boob. “need you ‘s bad” he was always touchy, could never keep his hands off you.

Curse!yuuta who doesn’t mind your sorcerer friends as long as they don’t get too close. Your friends can sense the heavy weight of cursed energy from you, even if they got close it was too much to bare sense yuuta was around, the air would fill thick and negative. You could barely go out with them to eat without his fingers buried in your cunt and playing your clit. They would ask you if you were okay when your head is down on the table but you just excuse it as you were not feeling well for a second but yuuta is grinning ear to ear, amused how your well your taking his slender fingers, curling them inside and you can’t help but squirm in your seat acting like your stomach is just hurting though you were about to orgasm. “Please yuuta..” you whisper to him “Come on you can cum on my fingers..” his raspy tone sending you shivers down your back.

Curse!yuuta who watches an “old friend” hug you, his hands in places that shouldn’t be. After you would praise yuuta for staying calm but yuuta would give shake his head only because you would be upset if he did anything and simply gave you a warning “Next time I’ll break his arm” “You can’t be serious” you sigh, you always knew he was.

Curse!yuuta who clenches his fist watching some prick try to flirt with you in front of him knowing he can’t be seen. Even the second time you reject him you can feel yuuta’s anger grow by the second that in any moment he would take action. “I-i have a boyfriend-“ praying yuuta doesn’t get violent “I don’t see him?” His hand coming up to touch your shoulder now he’s on the floor shouting in pain, blood from his broken nose all over his hands, shaken up that he didn’t see anyone hit him? Was he going crazy? “Pathetic” Yuuta mutters luckily he held back a lot, he could do so much worse and this wasn’t the first time.

Curse!yuuta who gets anxious that you might hate him when you get into arguments. He feels like he can’t exist without you, he’s nothing without you and the thought of you hating him makes his heart sink and scared that he’ll be all alone. He didn’t care about anyone else he just needed you. The amount of times you got tired of telling him not to hurt people and you could handle the situation yourself. He’ll plead you not to hate him and apologized excessively. “We can talk about this tomorrow” his stomach sinking by the tone of your voice that it will all end up to you hating him. He couldn’t stand the feeling.

Curse!yuuta who wants to let you know how much he loves you and how much he needs you, praying you don’t leave him or hate him. He glares at you in your sleeping state though he can’t wait til tomorrow he needed you to know now. “Please don’t hate me” “i love you so much” as he’s softly kissing your neck on each side, peeling your panties off. The cold air makes your cunt clench at his sight. He’s kissing the inner of your thighs sweetly and his lips makes contact with your pussy and a small whimper emits from your mouth. “Yuuta” you utter half sleep thinking it was only a sex dream, you were a heavy sleeper at that. he’s burying his lips between your folds trying to get more like he was so starved. If he can just make you feel good you won’t be mad at him and you can forgive him.

Curse!yuuta who can’t wait any longer, his dick pulsating through his pants even how much he gets drunk off your pussy, he loves the taste of it every time but he’s rutting against the mattress. Brings your thighs together to slip his cock between, throwing his head back letting out quiet moans as his cock is rubbing against your clit between your thighs. Your eyelids almost twitching open. He spreads your legs apart and sinks his dick into you watching your pretty lashes flutter at the sudden pleasure of you being spread apart. “Yu..?” You begin to stir awake, he kisses your lips before you start to fully take consciousness. “I don’t want you to hate me” “forgive me please” as he’s thrusting harsh inside you and swallowing your lips. By the time your walls were the shape of him every time he used you so it was easy for him to slide right in, you were made for him and he was made for you was the thought that brought him comfort. His fingers entwines with yours, his cock continuously rubbing hard in your insides. “Yuuta!” You moaned beautifully in his ear, your hand clawing at his back, yuuta loved it, it didn’t hurt him because you could never hurt him he didn’t mind it.

Curse!yuuta not wanting to stop, he’ll never get tired of cumming and filling up your pussy. You’ll be overstimulated begging him to stop it was awfully much to handle, you couldn’t cum anymore but you did as he’s plunging his cock in your abused cunt. The choke sobs and sounds of squelching filled the room “Need you-need you tell me you love me…please f-forgive me..ah!” Rubbing your clit increasing more nerves. “I-i love you yuuta! Ah-I really do! I could never be mad at you” Your words lifting weight off his chest still pounding into you. Holding you in a warm embrace to finish inside you. When he did filling up your womb one last time with his string of cum, your nails dig into his back letting your last orgasms crash into you. You let out a cry into his shoulder, your body trembles.

Curse!yuuta who needs constant reassurance you’ll never leave him, placing gentle kisses on each part of his face. Even though he’s nothing but a curse to you, being invisible to the outside world, Has a hard time showing remorse it’s just what he does to protect you, he somewhat doesn’t know that but knows he can be a bit possessive he just can’t help the urges of anyone getting close to you or worse even laying a finger.

Curse!yuuta bending you over the counter in the morning as you were trying to make yourself breakfast, last night was rough you were a bit sore but yuuta still misses your pussy. “Just a quick one I promise! I miss you so much! I’m just displaying my love for you—“ he pushes himself inside your worn out cunt from last night once again, you whimper at the feeling each time he rolls his hips when his balls slap against you. His hands reaching to your tit, massaging it in his palms. You don’t think you could ever break the curse from yuuta okkotsu.

[maipareshaan]

They aired this on bbc bill cosby documentary???? Wild lmao.

Ms Rashatwar told the programme: ‘If we actually grappled with the fact that sex negativity is what causes this type of behaviour, then we could create a world, where in an idyllically sex positive world, someone is able to pay conscious women to come and be drugged so that I can get my kink out, my fetish on having sex with unconscious people. There’s a consensual way to do that.’

I mean its a take. I can respect having it out in a different viewpoints way.

[fairyysoup]

his hands

pairing(s): hairdresser!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: How do you make getting a haircut an erotic experience? You have Eddie Munson as your hairdresser, of course.

cw: explicit, smut, unprotected piv sex, mirror sex, workplace sex, hand kink, choking, dumbification, dom!eddie, touch-starved!reader, semi-sort-of subspace happenings, referring to genitals with gendered pronouns, slight body worship, getting weirdly horny over a head massage, sexual tension, negative self talk, hair cut/style mentioned but no description of hair color/type, the aftercare is the haircut lol, implied 90s au, eddie's like 30, reader's age unspecified, eddie is employee of the month in my heart, not proofread, no beta we die like men

a/n: this is weird. and came from an interesting experience i had at the hair salon. and yes that is corpse's hand in that pic i didn't want to spend all day looking for a header pic shut up shut up shut up

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

read here

[klausinamarink]

You’re Never Too Much

rating: T | cw: negative self talk | wc: 1.5k | tags: angst with happy ending, hurt Steve, arguing and making up, established relationship, post-canon | prompt: Love is giving them space when they need it

written for @steddielovemonth

Steve knows he can be unbearable with his partners sometimes. 

He can’t help it. He doesn’t have a switch that shuts down the sparkling fountain of love like his parents apparently possess. It just naturally flows his veins without pause and surges anew every day.

His first girlfriend Heidi had broken up with him three days into the relationship, saying that Steve was too much for her. He had been more confused than devastated back then because since when did hugging your girlfriend from behind with a kiss to the cheek become ‘too much’? It only confused Steve more when he saw Heidi’s new boyfriend doing the exact same thing with her and they’d been together for three months by then.

Steve had ignored the tiny pang in his chest, shrugged off Carol’s comments, and moved on. Maybe he and Heidi weren’t meant to be anyways.

But it kept happening with the other girls. Leaving romantic poems in the locker instead of make-out invites? Too much. A bundle of flowers after class? Too much. Wanting to cuddle after sex? Too much. Stay the morning after? Too much.

Then came Nancy and she had adored every one of Steve’s antics that none of his previous girlfriends had liked. He quickly made his own schedule of sneaking into her bedroom late in the evening to help her study because he loved her blush and the bright gleam in her eyes. The day when Nancy told him that he was a dork was the day when Steve felt his heart swell because finally, he wasn’t being too much. 

And then Barb disappeared and monsters turned out to be real.

Nancy stayed with him but it wasn’t the same anymore. She would still laugh at his corny jokes and affirmations but Steve had seen her distant eyes, no longer bright with the same love. Like she had managed to switch it off by herself.

Steve should’ve split up with her. But he didn’t want to be an asshole and leave her miserable with no support who knew nothing about the Upside Down. But she hadn’t pushed him away or told him his efforts were too much. So he stayed.

If he had left sooner, then Steve wouldn't have been told in a stranger’s bathroom that his love wasn’t just too much, they were bullshit instead.

He couldn’t trust himself with another romantic partner after that.

And then about two years later, he and Eddie started dating. 

Everything that Steve had been told was ‘too much’ or ‘bullshit’ became ‘give me more’. More lazy kisses in the morning, more cuddles on the couch, more help with the laundry or dishes, more lovemaking, more, more.

Steve also found out real quick that Eddie loved whenever Steve quoted Shakespeare - especially Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado About Nothing - for no reason except to watch his boyfriend turn and scream delightfully into his own shoulder. Of course, Steve had taken his advantage, dialing it up with the Harrington charm just to make Eddie’s face redder. Whenever he thought that was too much, Eddie turned back around and kissed him with stupid smiles on both of their faces.

For a while, Steve had thought he finally found the perfect partner.

But he forgets that he doesn’t know how to shut his heart down.

—

Steve casually leans against the living room wall, acting totally non-suspicious as hides from view of the front door. He hears it swing open and then Eddie coming inside, the metallic clicking of his crane accompanying his steps. Steve waits just a bit longer until Eddie makes his way to the kitchen. Then he hurries around the corner and giddily wraps his arms around Eddie’s torso, lifting the man up.

“Welcome back-” Steve starts, a petname ready to fall out as he’s ready to bemoan his loneliness. But Eddie’s cold tone makes his jaws instantly clamp shut.

“Put me down.”

Steve obeys, swiftly but carefully as not to agitate Eddie’s leg. He keeps his arms around his boyfriend, squeezing just once in what he hopes comes off as assuring. However, Eddie only stiffens and says in the same cold tone-

“Let me go.”

Steve does. Eddie continues on towards the kitchen, not even glancing over once. Anxiety starts to drill into Steve’s spine, already making its way into the lining of his stomach. Something clearly happened to Eddie that’s putting him in a foul mood.

Tailing after him, Steve finally finds his voice and asks, “Is everything okay?”

Eddie doesn’t respond. He plops down onto a chair, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders are starting to shake. The anxiety shifts into concern as Steve hurries over to his side. “Eds-”

Eddie suddenly slams his hands onto the table, startling Steve back. He whips his head around to glare at Steve, yelling, “Is it too much to leave me alone for one minute?!”

Too much.

Steve swallows the thick lump in his throat, mumbles something he hopes is an apology, and stumbles outside to the backyard. He stares at the pool for a second before he quickly rounds to the side of his house, stopping just along the walls where he always felt the sunlight wouldn’t reach. Steve slowly crouches down to the ground, staring at nothing in particular despite the burning pressure behind his eyes and heart.

He should’ve seen this coming. Actually, he had known the day when Eddie finally had enough of his unbearable actions was approaching soon. They’ve been together for nearly a year. Just as long as Steve had with Nancy before that Halloween party. But Steve’s been living in blissful ignorance, hoping that it wouldn’t happen.

But even that had been too much.

A wet laugh bubbles out of his lips and Steve quickly clamps a hand over it. He feels like a kid, hiding behind his house like he’s avoiding his father instead of Eddie. It’s so stupid but very on-brand.

He lets the tears drop, forcing his hand to remain on his mouth so he can stay quiet. He doesn’t want to upset Eddie anymore.

Crunching stones under shoes approach. Steve doesn’t even look up when he hears a sucking of breath and Eddie’s murmuring voice, “Shit, Stevie.”

Calloused, ringed hands gently cup both sides of his face. Steve barely catches himself from sinking into the grasp. It’s always too easy to enjoy the feeling of Eddie’s hands on his cheeks. Was it too much for Eddie as well?

“Stevie, please look at me.”

Despite his brain screaming at him no, Steve does so. Eddie’s eyes are bloodshot red and tracks of tears practically shine on his face. In another scenario, he would look as beautiful as ever. But instead, he looks like shit.

Eddie’s fingers tap on his hand, the one still clamping over his mouth. Steve shakes his head quickly. He doesn’t want to break down into a sobbing mess and demand Eddie’s comfort.

“I’m sorry.” Eddie rasps out, a line of spittle popping out of his mouth. His voice sounds rough like he had just cried. “I’m so sorry, Steve, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Work was-” He closes his eyes, shudders out another breath, and opens them again. “What happened at work wasn’t an excuse and never should be. Even if I was exhausted and upset, I shouldn’t have lashed out. I wish I could take those words back, baby.”

Steve finally removes his hand, managing to speak coherent words just before the sobbing finally breaks out. “Am I too much though?”

He catches the horrified expression before Eddie suddenly pulls him forward into a tight embrace.

“You’re never too much, sweetheart. You’re just fucking perfect.” Eddie whispers into Steve’s ear, clear as day.

Steve doesn’t know how they spend kneeling on the ground as his entire body rattles out from crying while Eddie keeps holding him and occasionally gently shushing Steve. Eventually, Steve’s eyes dry out and he feels so tired that he just wants to tuck himself into bed and sleep.

Eddie helps him up and guides him back inside the house. They linger at the foot of the stairs, both of them realizing the same thing.

“Do you… want me to sleep with you still?” Eddie asks softly. He hasn’t let his hand go from Steve’s where it occasionally squeezes around his fingers. It fixes something in Steve’s heart but it’s barely enough to soothe the ache over.

“I-” Steve cuts himself off. Eddie looks at him earnestly, his brown eyes appearing to grow bigger with the still-there shining tears. Steve sighs and continues, “I think I want.. space. Just for tonight.”

Eddie nods, pursing his lips. “So do I. I think that’ll be good for tonight.”

“You won’t leave?” It hurts Steve to ask even though his gut is certain that Eddie will rather chew his hand off than leave.

“I’ll still be here.” Eddie raises a hand up with a small smile. “Especially in the morning when we’re rested and less pissed-off.”

Steve smiles back, “Okay.”

And when the morning does come, Eddie’s still here. When they talk and apologize, Eddie tells Steve again that he never thought of Steve as an unbearable boyfriend.

It makes Steve feel warm from the overflow of Eddie’s love.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Normal People Things (dark!141 x fem!Reader)

Soap drags you to his place to meet with his lieutenant. It goes as smoothly as you can imagine. AO3 CW and tags: Non-con, poly, group sex, size kink, daddy kink, power imbalance, kidnapping, dead dove do not eat, forced orgasms, praise, humiliation

The ride is short – shorter than you anticipated. You don’t know if you wanted it to be longer if you needed more time to sort out the thoughts flying in your head – you feel numb, empty, hollow, all of those stupid words for stupid expressions because nothing can quite describe the dread settling in your stomach. 

Your throat burns, your makeup is ruined, you are shaking like a kitten left under a rain – you listen to some light music, something you could hear in the car of a guy you’d probably be interested in. Classic rock, some melodic sensations, if you squint and cover your mouth, you can almost relax and stop the desire to puke. You felt mostly sober when the Scot was pushing his dick in your mouth, the horror of the situation forcing your mind to clear up a little – but now it’s foggy again, blurry and messy every time you open your eyes just to see the same man on the front seat, smiling every time he catches you looking at him through the mirror. 

He broke your phone, obviously – snatched it from your hands and broke it in two with horrifying ease. He kissed you after this, cold lips on your forehead. You were crying, or so you think – you were crying this whole ordeal, your face feeling wet and burning as he was fucking laughing, trying to get you to talk to him. You wouldn’t, even if your throat weren’t hoarse and hurting from the fucking he gave you. 

“Want to grab somethin’ to eat, bonnie? I know a bloody lovely place, eh?”

You didn’t respond, the thought of taking something from a guy who eligibly kidnapped you made you sick. Besides, it’s not like food will do you any good – your stomach is spinning from a combination of fear and alcohol, and even though you’d love to ruin this pretty car, you don’t want to evocate even more negative feelings from its owner. He hasn’t hurt you too much yet – no bruises, no broken bones or blood, and you don’t want to provoke him further. 

“Don’t cry so much, I didn’t even fucked ye. I’ll get ye off later, aye?” 

You don’t want him to ever touch you again – despite that disgusting, burning feeling on your panties, the way your little cunt is fucking soaked because his voice is gruff, his face is pretty, and he almost touched you in a way that wasn’t making you sick – it all dropped now, thankfully, your mind is reminded of just how horrible he really is. “Just sit yer wee arse here, lassie. Lt and I will take care of ye” You almost fell asleep when he finally stopped in front of…a building. You don’t know what you were expecting – an evil lair, maybe some grimy base where monsters like him are being made. Not a rather normal apartment building, maybe a bit too scary and dark for your liking – you probably wouldn’t want to live here or even be around this place at night, but, ultimately, it doesn’t look like an evil base. 

This only makes your condition worse – you start sobbing again, useless and pathetic begging as the Scot drags you out of the car, supporting your wobbly legs and making sure you won’t fall down to the ground as he gently caresses your body. He is too fucking soft, too gentle – even his grip on your wrists isn’t bruising, he has one hand on your waist, gently pushing you towards the building. 

***

Ghost wasn’t expecting guests today. He just got out of another deployment, a few days from the previous mission, ready to get back any time if it weren’t for the fact they all deserved a little retreat – yet, he was planning to go with alcohol, maybe some lowly jerk-off sessions with Johnny and shitton of cigarettes to pass the day. What he wasn’t expecting is his sergeant spamming the 141 group chat – shitty idea, really, too much liability and security problems, despite all the measures Price took to encrypt everything – with pictures of cute, crying girl being all adorable, scared and fucking defenseless. 

No one in 141 is a good person – it comes with the job, really, if you’re willing to be a good guy with a gun, there will always be a moment when the lines become blurred. Dragging a civilian girl to their damp apartment isn’t a life-or-death decision made in the field, but they all deserve a bit of sweetness after a mission, right? 

They can be good for you. Simon isn’t sure there is anything in his heart that can still be declared as soft and fuzzy feelings, but he is willing to try and find it, even if for a night. They won’t be letting you go, obviously, Lasswell won’t cover their sorry asses in case you’re getting out with a marvelous surviving story, so you all would have a lot of time to get to know each other. 

— Thought you’d bring food, Johnny. 

— I did. Not my fault they gave up sweets as freebies. 

— How is she? 

— Quiet. Our lassie is a smart girl, eh? Didn’t even fight too much. 

— Fuckin’ hell. Thought they stopped making those a while ago. 

— Good thing I found her, aye? 

Ghost stands at the door of their shared apartment, staring at adorable scared you. You’re shaking in his sergeant’s hands, poor thing, too fucking terrified to even run – you have mascara smeared all over your face, drool and cum on your lips, and he drags a finger to your mouth, wiping it all away. 

You instinctively suck on his finger, the natural obedience coming with a very simple “please, don’t hurt me” plea – and he fucking knows you will be so good for them. He is dragging you inside, allowing Soap to push the takeout bag on the small table in the kitchen while Simon is dealing with all of those silly clothes you’re wrapped in. 

You beg him to stop, but, at this point, even you don’t think he will. All ounces of hope were destroyed already. You aren’t sure what you want anymore – maybe you want to just lay down and sleep, hoping that they will stop tormenting you. The ache between your legs only grows stronger when Ghost drags you to the bedroom, his strong, bulky hands holding you so perfectly – so firmly, you can’t even wish to move away. 

The mattress creaks under the combined weight of your bodies. You roll to the side immediately, your brain is foggy from alcohol again – you don’t even register his rough, firm hands as he is slowly dragging the ruined dress from your body, revealing the underwear you spend so much time choosing and buying. You liked the combination – you wanted to wear something nice today, even if no one would have seen it. 

Now you have this horrifying man in a skull balaclava and harsh hands tugging on the straps of your bra. You sob, head spinning and vomit picking in your throat. The man puts a hand between your shoulder blades, just enough pressure to make you grounded – to remind you that there is no way out, even in your mind. 

— Calm down, love. Won’t hurt ya. 

You choke on a laugh – they are literally going to fucking assault you, you were already forced to suck on Soap’s dick, and yet, this man is playing gentleman with you while undressing you at the same time. You cry again, your tears met with a soft hand on your cheek – checking on you. 

God, you want to drown in this affection, no matter how artificial it is. 

— L…let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone. 

— Too late for that, eh? Johnny don’t have any bloody manners. 

Scot screams from the kitchen, making you wince from the sound. 

“Bloody hell, Lt, I ken ye were fine with draggin’ our lassie here a minute ago!“ You sobs intensify, and you never felt more fragile than before – just one loud sound is enough to break you. The British guy drags you into an uncomfortably tight embrace almost immediately – you’d say you’re almost thankful for the moment of affection, but he snaps your bra a second later. 

— Sorry, love. Will buy you a new one. 

His fingertips are rough on your skin, a contrast that sends shivers down your spine. You whine, feeling stranded like this – feeling like you’re going to be fucking sick from the moisture in your panties. You hate yourself for being this touch starved, but the man is as rough as he is mysterious – and by the look of his figure, perfectly sculpted hands, and a healthy amount of tummy that doesn’t make him look any less intimidating, he might be up to your tastes. It's too bad you don’t have a choice anyway. 

— Don’t touch me. 

— Can’t help it. You’re pretty. 

You feel like you are going to have a fucking panic attack. This is too much – you feel sick, you feel mortified, you are getting your hands out of his hold with the power of surprise and dragging them closer to your mouth, trying to contain the involuntary bile collecting in your throat. You gag, finally feeling all the alcohol you took, getting back to bite you in the ass. 

Before you could say or try anything else, before you could even be bent over, trying to calm yourself down before you dirty everything in this fine-looking bedroom, Brit already dragged you to the bathroom, allowing you to look at the tile floor and white ceramics while you were vomiting your guts, cum, and anxiety out of your stomach. 

It took you a few minutes before you could get anything out – and another few while you were just holding the toilet seat, not even caring about how unsanitary it was. You feel like you’re going to die, the throbbing in your head only intensifying as you could almost feel dropping out of conscience. God, you will never drink again – even though it’s a promise that will break you right after you break it. 

— Bloody hell, love. Easy. Easy. 

— F…fuck you. 

— You will, love. Promise. 

The skull mask guy was rubbing your back the whole time, a motion you didn’t expect from a kidnapper, rapist and a fucking arsehole. He gently took your hair out of the way, he slowly rubbed calming gestures in your aching muscles, and you leaned into his touch, your state was finally reaching the breaking point – you were longing for the soft touch of your captor, not even caring that he is just as awful as his friends, rummaging through various bags somewhere in the other room. 

You cry, the depths of the situation finally getting to you – and he drags you into a tight hug after wiping your mouth with a paper towel, throwing it away before you could feel sick from the smell again. 

He talks you through it with his grovely voice and deep accent, and you can’t help but lean in and listen. 

— Calm down. Can’t have you panicking on my cock. 

— D…don’t touch me. Please. 

— You need this, love. We’re not the worst people who could have picked ya up. 

— You’re a bunch of fucking ra…

He stops you immediately – holds your hand, and drags you back to the bedroom almost too rough, dropping you to the bed before you can manage to scramble your legs and writhe away from his touch. You sob again, crying even more – you don’t have makeup now. Thankfully, everything was mostly wiped out by the paper towels and a mix of your tears, but you still feel horrible. Laying on the soft bed in your soaked panties made you feel like a slut, and this is not the feeling you were expecting out of this night. You just fucking wanted to go home and sleep the alcohol out, not…this. 

— We’ll take care of you. Be a good girl for us, and I will make Johnny pay for not getting you off, eh? 

You can hear the Scot again, emerging from the kitchen in an apron – to your surprise. He looks too domestic, too clean, his hair is a bit disheveled after your little attempt at breaking out, and you can see the resemblance between him and a very, very sad and polite dog. If he had a tail, it would be curled between his knees, a look of genuine guilt almost making you believe that he wanted to apologize for being so forceful. 

— Steamin’ Jesus, I tried to be a gentleman. Didn’t want to scare our lassie too much. 

— She’s shivering. Poor girl, was Johnny this scary? 

— It’s yer mask. Wee things always scared of those. 

They both laugh, clearly not taking your tears seriously. You curl into the bed, trying to protect your exposed breasts and midriff as much as possible. You don’t want to be touched, you feel dirty and used already, but their attentive gaze is making your skin burn and crawl from the feelings you never thought you knew before. It’s a horrible situation, but somehow, you are almost flattered because of how affectionate they both look for someone as insignificant as you. 

Maybe, it’s your brain trying to protect itself from further trauma. Maybe, if you’d lie to yourself long enough, you could pretend you want this. 

Ghost looks at you, drinking the drowning panic in your eyes. You’re so pretty, so helpless, he doesn’t even want to think of what could happen to you if Johnny weren’t here to pick you up. You’d be murdered in cold blood, left laying on the side of the street after a group of some perverts would be done with you. You don’t deserve to be treated like this, you deserve a proper help and calmness of living with them – and he knows that once he is done with bringing his first orgasm with your body, you will learn to love it too. Maybe not at first, but the seeds would be there. 

He tries to be on his best behavior as he slowly drags his body between your legs, catching your ankles once you tried to kick him. You’re like a kitten, growling and hissing, clawing on his hands like it didn’t turn him on even more – he pins you under his weight easily, enjoying the audience of Soap already palming himself through his pants. Fucking pervert – he already came in your mouth not so long ago, but the lieutenant knows that given a chance, his sergeant will break this girl for another three rounds in a row. They can’t have that, right? 

— Calm, love. Don’t make it harder for yourself. 

— Stop…please, just…god, wait, I…

It’s such empty words, he knows you can’t calm yourself down – you’re a pretty girl, really, you’re cute and adorable, and you don’t deserve his firm hand taking off your lace panties, but he knows that you will love it after a few more times. You’re dripping already, a combination of manhandling and previous foreplay making you adorably weak for them. 

— Will make you nice and wet, yeah? Such a pretty cunt, bound to give it a taste. 

— W..wait, please, don’t, really, j…just let me…

— Quiet, love. You’ll fuckin’ love it. 

Ghost drags his fingers straight into your folds, spreading them as quickly as possible. He would love to give you more time to adjust, but he was hard ever since Johnny made that goddamn call, and patience isn’t his best quality when on leave – he needs you in all ways you can handle. On your back, preferably, he wants to see that pretty face of yours when he will bottom himself in your cunt and make you squeal. Maybe play with your ass for a little – if you’re going to be the team’s favorite girl, they need all of your holes ready to be used. 

You squeak from surprise when he drags his mask on the upper half of his face, revealing his mouth. Clean-shaved chin, a bit of uneven blonde stubble, strong jawline – he smirks because he knows he is quite the opposite of ugly, that even after all the burns and scars, he is still that rugged type of handsome that ladies in pubs just love to touch. He wonders if you’re more of a typical pretty boy type – he wonders if you’d like Gaz as much as you love Simon. And you fucking adore him by the sight of your wet pussy almost dripping on his tongue. 

You beg him to stop when he slides his tongue in, the feeling of his harsh fingers stretching you only making everything hotter, less bearable. You don’t want to like it, but he is handsome and strong, he is whispering sweet compliments into your pussy, sliding sloppy kisses all over your folds, not forgetting to pay attention to your throbbing clit. 

“Such a pretty cunt for us. What was the last time she got so much attention?” 

He kisses you down there sloppily, adding another finger almost immediately to really make you feel that burn. You’re crying from stimulation, it’s been a while since the last time you had anything so heated – you just want him to stop, to proceed, to let you go, and also to never stop kissing your pussy and collecting all the juice that’s been flowing from you. You make the bedsheets under your ass wet, and Ghost just can’t help but stretch you a bit more, enjoying the sound of your confused, almost pained squeals. 

“Stop crying, love. I could have taken your arse instead.”

He can only imagine how adorable you’d look, crying from his cock in your plump rear. He is by no means small, and the thought of tearing your pretty arse just a little, making you cry from being filled so much, makes him even harder. He needs to be patient, can’t break your rear before Captain gets here – but god, isn’t patience the hardest virtue. 

“S’good for me. Sorry, love, can’t wait much longer. Got a bloody lovely cunt f’ me” 

You cry even harder when Ghost finally slides his cock in you – one harsh thrust, the sound of his hips slapping against yours, is enough to make you sick again. You’re stretched, dripping wet, it wouldn’t hurt if only he had a normal-sized cock, not the fucking monstrosity he is showing in your underprepared pussy. Nothing would prepare you for this – he started moving immediately, with little regard for your comfort. The niceties he was whispering were falling on deaf ears as he slammed inside of you over and over again. 

You feel sick. 

— Fuck. S’ tight for me. 

You’re clenching around his dick, not allowing him to pull back. Such a pretty girl, he doesn’t know what he would do without that feeling – he wants to fucking devour you whole, to have you laid out for him so prettily. He bottoms finally, stretching you beyond any man could – you feel him somewhere deep, near your cervix, hitting your sensitive walls while all you can do is cry for him to stop tormenting you like this. You can only squeal under him, for him, he is hitting all of your special spots at the same time, and you don’t know if you could really handle him like this. 

His hand lands on your folds, playing with your clit – only making you more and more wet with each second, you almost feel like you are passing the breaking point already. He is stronger than you want him to be, and you feel like he is going to fucking break you, every attempt of squirming from under him is met with a fierce grip on your waist, dragging you back where you belong – moaning and crying on his cock. 

The intrusion stopped being painful after a few minutes, you’re open enough to allow his cock to slide in and out easily. He bites your neck, munching on sensitive flesh like he is going to rip a chuck off you, leaving marks as if he were a wild dog. You moan under him, the feeling of his teeth on your skin isn’t exactly horrible – but not too enjoyable either. 

You squirm softly, hoping he would at least cum soon. 

— That’s right. Dumb civvie girls should just relax for the ride. 

— N…not dumb. I’m not dumb. 

— Only a dumb girl like you would get in Johnny’s hands. S’ry, love, but you really are dumb. 

— I’m…

— It’s alright. We like dumb girls. 

He moans in your ear, biting your earlobe, engaging in a sloppy kiss that allows you to taste your pleasure on his lips. You hate every second, you want to loathe every inch of his body, but his hand is moving faster and faster, steady rhythm that makes you see stars every time he plunges his cock inside – and, oh god, you can’t help but feel your pussy throbbing around him, the tight knot in your lower tummy getting warmer and warmer as his movements steadily brings you to an orgasm. 

It hits you too fast to be prepared for – just a few minutes later, you’re panting under him, mouth open agape as he slides his cock even faster, abusing your poor, sensitive cunt. You’re milking him for cum, not even caring that you are not on the pill – you just concentrate on the head of his cock hitting your G-spot in the most perfect of timings and his rough fingertips caressing your clit in a way that makes you go wild. 

You cum with a cry, soft, squeaky sobs escaping your lips as you hiccup and moan, pressing your hips against his in an attempt to become as close as possible. You feel his hot cum filling you up, a slight bulge in your lower tummy becoming even more prominent. 

Ghost kisses you on the forehead as he slowly emerges from you, hissing as your tight walls refuse to let him go. You’re so fucking perfect, all flushed and panting heavily, neck covered in bite marks and outline of his bruises forming on your waist. 

He pats your pussy a few times, making you shiver from the feeling. 

— Such a pretty girl. Lay here, your cunt is goin’ to be a bit more visitors today. 

He smiles, kissing you on the lips again – you whimper, curling on the bed, feeling the hot cum dripping from your exhausted, sore pussy. You feel his hand affectionately patting your head as if you were a cat, and he hums in approval when you instinctively lean towards his hand, getting as much affection as you possibly can. He brings you a pillow and drags your head so it would rest more comfortably – and you already feel extremely tired, your eyes closing. 

You’re almost ready to sleep when you feel the Scot sliding in bed with you, slowly spreading your legs.