#i don’t move on from the desperation and breathlessness and sobbin but instead move on from the thing that hurts my brain

[flowercrowngods]

Hi! This might not be too helpful but I thought I'd share anyway just in case. You wrote in an ask reply tag that you realized that you are not a person who is okay but that it is alright. That reminded me so much of some of my own realisations about myself. I've come to learn that I cannot handle as much as others. Cannot take on as many tasks, as many meet ups (even friendly), or fill my day with as many things as people around me. It always felt like that meant that I was somehow less or weaker. But runninng into the same phenomenon over and over again made me question things. Also I would never think this about anyone else, this painful way of thinking was only reserved for myself. But with time I figured that maybe it was absolutely okay to have a different capacity for things. This is FINE. I'm not wrong or weak for this. Don't get me wrong, its still a daily struggle to remind myself, but it does get easier to believe.

So when I read this tag of yours I was really hoping that you meant it in a similar way, where this knowledge can bring comfort. You deserve the comfort! Wish I could hug you tightly 🫂

i love that you sent me this ask. i love that you worked (and are working) towards acceptance and respect and gentleness. you deserve that and i’m proud of you 🤍

as for myself, it’s a bit like that too, yeah

“i’m not okay but it’s fine it’s fine we move on anyway”

some days it means “i’m not okay but what the hell am i gonna do about it now except watch cartoons and try not to think until not being okay is not as prevalent and choking anymore”

some days it means “i’m not okay but i’ll try anyway, who knows what good might come of it”

some days it means “i’m not okay but in 10 minutes or an hour or tomorrow might be so i’ll put myself out there”

some days it means “i’m not okay and i haven’t been and maybe never will be and i get to mourn that, i get to be angry for all the past versions of myself who were refused help, i get to do things for them, because we are not okay and we get to be angry but still we deserve nice things”

some days it means “i’m not okay and that’s fine because there are people who will help me”

some days it means “i’m not okay and i will take a break now, i will breathe and try again later, or accept that simply cannot do this right now”

sometimes we just live with that mental limp, and some days it’s worse than others. we can’t pretend like it’s not there — what good would that bring? no, we just live with it. it’s fine, it’s fine, we move on anyway. but still we get to decide how and at what pace and in which direction we move on. it’s just the moving on part that is non-negotiable, and i feel like we deserve more credit for that — mostly from ourselves.

[howdoyousleep3]

Kinktober, 10/18: In the Kitchen

Hello yes hi. I wanted to bring this mf back and here he is in all his glory. Shoutout to @maddiewritesstucky​ for hyping me tf uppppppp. Hope you love. 💕

Pairing: Mr. Barber and Male Reader (This is a continuation from my last work on these two, which you can find here or here. The reader is not underage.)  Tags: Intercrural Sex (aka thigh fucking), Kitchen Sex, Secret Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/Sub Undertones, Age Difference, Grinding 

“Jacob, you alright going to the store while we finish cleaning up from dinner? You know what I like—mint chocolate chip!”

The words bounce around in his skull like a marble, rolling around aimlessly without sticking any sort of landing, lacking comprehension. His hand stalls under the running faucet, fingers weakening on his grip on a plate, all at the seemingly cheery suggestion Mr. Barber gives his son.

Jacob’s going to leave? Leave him alone with Mr. Barber? His name being spoken rips him from his few seconds of sheer panic.

“What kind of ice cream do you want?”

He doesn’t even remember what he says, doesn’t care. All he can think about is being alone with Mr. Barber for the first time in… weeks? Surely it hasn’t been that long, he thinks, but it has felt more like months, years, and he can barely stand it. He’s never experienced such desperation before, has never been at the mercy of someone else’s touch the way he is with Mr. Barber.

They have done their fair share of exchanging heated glances, of discreet flirting, of frantic handsy makeout sessions. The thought of Mr. Barber’s capable hands on his body, his demanding lips on his own, his voice in his ear; it all never leaves. He’s consumed by the thoughts, by the ghost of lingering touches on his own skin and under his fingertips.

He’s always hard. He finds himself saving his pent-up energy for when he’s jamming his fingers into his mouth in the shower when his fist flies over his dick as he thinks about Mr. Barber fucking him.

“You gonna take it? Yeah you are, gonna show me you can handle it, c’mon—be good for me.”

He feels good when Mr. Barber touches him, feels good when Mr. Barber fucks him. He tries hard not to think about all the bad that he’s doing and tries even harder to not think about how good being bad makes him feel.

His hands tremble as he places the plate he just finished rinsing into the dishwasher. He hears the rattle of keys, the door to the garage shut, feels his chest constrict. He will not, under any circumstances, be the first one to make any sort of move or implication of so. He takes a few forks, rinses them under water that is steaming but that his hands don’t recognize as being hot, places those into the dishwasher as well.

Even when he can sense Mr. Barber behind him, can hear his shaky breathing and feel the goddamn heat of his body, he does not turn around. It’s only until a hand, not his own, reaches forward and turns the faucet off. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, to lowly whimper out, “Fuck’, but he does just that as he shuffles on his feet. He feels lips on his neck first, but hands quickly follow suit, two large palms that sweep up his torso, squeeze at his pecs.

“Wish I had enough time to fuck you,” Mr. Barber rumbles, wet on his neck as an arm goes taut around his waist, the other hand coming up to cup the front of his throat. So direct, almost abrasive, but it has his sigh turning into a whine of relief. Mr. Barber’s lips are hot on the side of his neck, wet and loud, and in just ten seconds their shared energy is almost chaotic.

“Can fuck me, want it. Miss it,” he breathes as he is pulled away from the sink and he moans when the line of his back gets pulled against Mr. Barber’s front. God, the older man’s cock is already hard against the small of his back, the top of his ass, and he wants. He no longer has to wonder why Mr. Barber put on sweats for the evening; it’s much easier to tease and feel this way. He wants so much his own hand flies back to try and touch, to reach, but he ends up pawing at Mr. Barber’s hip with a wet hand instead.

“Not enough time, not with what I wanna do to you,” Mr. Barber states, teeth tugging at the shell of his ear. He retaliates, doesn’t like that, grinds back into Mr. Barber with a swirl of his hips and a huff.

“You haven’t fucked me in weeks,” he pouts, digging into Mr. Barber’s crotch so that his cock slots right between his ass cheeks, right where they both want him. There’s a low noise, the press of teeth against the hinge of his jaw, the hand around the front of his throat going momentarily and thrillingly tight. Through the sensations, his hips never stop moving. He takes the time to revel in the feeling and brief familiarity of that cock, also takes the time to whimper once more in disappointment of not having it inside of him tonight.

“Yeah? You upset about that?” Mr. Barber asks, a slight tease to his voice. Bastard. Before he can respond, Mr. Barber is pushing him chest-down into the counter, hand tight on the nape of his neck. He hates how good it feels to be in such a position, bent over with a cock heavy on his ass.

“Yes,” he bites out, hands moving to grip the edge of the countertop. He bites his lip to prevent himself from gifting Mr. Barber with any whimper when the older man rolls his hips forward more than a bit suggestively.

“Yeah, show me. Show me what you’ve been thinkin’ about.”

Mr. Barber’s voice is deliciously eager, both hands running down to squeeze at his waist, tight and yummy. He tugs on his hips, implies he moves, and with a heavy exhale, he’s grinding and rolling back into a sturdy torso, a firm cock. He lets himself get a little lost, lets himself feel. He stands up on his tippy toes to make the arch in his back count, making it easier to roll up and down. He mewls between his clenched teeth, wanting more while still trying to savor what he has in this moment.

“There you go, this what you’ve been thinkin’ about? Takin’ me like a champ?”

He is a fool for forgetting that Mr. Barber’s mouth is the filthiest fucking thing within the city limits, maybe beyond. It isn’t like anything he’s ever experienced with anyone else before and it has him agreeing and nodding his head immediately, stupidly.

“Yeah, fuck yeah, please.”

“More,” Mr. Barber demands, hands running up to his shoulders, and oh that bit of force makes his dick throb in his shorts. “Tell me more, get specific. Come on, baby.”

The demand makes his grumble, but the addition of the baby makes him turn his cheek sweetly into the countertop. A squeeze to his shoulders, a pull on them, and he’s melting underneath the hands and touch of Mr. Barber.

“God, fuck. Think about you every night, wake up hard every morning. I… I t-touch myself thinking about you.”

“That’s sweet, do ya now?”

“Mhmm, yeah think… think about you fuckin’ me,” he explains with a flush of his cheeks, and he has no control over the way his voice goes whiney, gets a bit breathless. His breathlessness continues, amplifies, when Mr. Barber’s hands run roughly up his sides to take hold of his neck. He whimpers, mewls, when Mr. Barber takes his turn to roll his hips, to grind in tight to the curve of his ass. When Mr. Barber doesn’t interject, he continues.

“Think about… about how good you felt inside’a me. How… how you felt so good you made me cry.”

The groan Mr. Barber lets out is one that has a heavy presence, is one that he swears he can feel within his own chest. It has the hands forcefully wrapped around his neck scrambling down to his shorts. When they catch the waistband, they tug, pulling his bottoms down his hips and over his ass. When the cooler air hits the heated skin of his backside, he can’t help but gasp.

His gasp turns into a purr of his own when Mr. Barber’s hands squeeze at the meat of his ass.

“Been thinkin’ about you sobbin’ around my cock for weeks,” Mr. Barber mumbles, voice like gravel against his ear, in his belly. He’d cry if Mr. Barber wanted it. He thinks he could cry without forcing it. With another whimper, he nods his head in agreement, in… something. He’s already forgotten.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ too, thinkin’ about the way that boy cunt looked all stretched around my cock, so hungry. Y’still hungry now, kid?”

With a luxurious stretch of the line of his back, a push of his ass, he’s moaning out, “Yes, sir so hungry.”

His briefs are next, a tug and an almost tear before they’re joining his shorts around his ankle. This move makes a blush rise to his cheeks, makes him whimper a bit in humiliation. His whimper appears to be pointless though, because Mr. Barber’s noise is so appreciative and gluttonous it takes the worries right out of his thoughts.

“There he is, fuck that’s sweet,” Mr. Barber purrs, not wasting precious seconds and immediately pressing his clothed erection tight against the curve of his bare ass. Oh, it feels good, feels so fucking good. The way that cock feels, all warm and solid against the middle of his ass, has him spreading his legs, pressing up onto his toes again to feel.

“Mr. Barber…wanna feel, wanna—”

A sharp hand coming down on his ass cheek has his words dying in his throat. Mr. Barber does it once, twice more, grabs at two palmfuls of his ass, and squeezes roughly.

“Wanna feel what? Wanna feel me?” the older man inquires in a gruff voice and all he can do is nod his head dumbly into the countertop with a whine. Mr. Barber doesn’t give him a chance to answer verbally though, instead exhales heavily himself before a hand leaves his ass for just a moment before—

“That what you wanted? What you fuckin’ missed?”

He thought backing himself and his ass into a cock inside of sweatpants was erotic. He hadn’t yet felt the hot skin of Mr. Barber’s cock smack down onto the top of his ass though. Nothing is better than skin on skin and it makes his own heavy dick twitch where it hangs between his spread legs. Mr. Barber keeps one hand on his waist, tight, the other he uses to slap his cock down onto his ass a few lewd times.

“This what you fuckin’ missed, boy?” Mr. Barber hisses, losing some self-control and guiding the head of his dick between his ass cheeks, pushing it right against his hole. It’s right where he wants Mr. Barber. Energy shifts, franticness takes over. There are the fingers of one hand taut in his hair then, tugging, and with a pained mewl he tips his ass up in response.

“Yes! Yes, sir yes. Fuckin’ missed that… that cock. Missed you!”

“Atta boy, there you go. Show me what we don’t have time for, come on, pretty.”

Pretty makes him shout. Pretty combined with the feeling of Mr. Barber’s fat cock resting against his circling ass makes the fire in his belly burn hotter. If he presses back just right, he can feel Mr. Barber’s balls perfectly, can feel the way they hang hot and push up against the bottom of his ass. He wants them in his mouth.

The more he moves, gyrates, grinds, the more he gets to feel Mr. Barber’s cock on his bottom, his backside. And the more he feels it, the more he grows to want it inside of him. Mr. Barber is behind him purring, making all sorts of rumbly noises in agreement and appreciation, and a moment’s realization of where he is and what he’s doing makes his dick turn achy, makes him hurt for any kind of release.

Everything mounts when Mr. Barber moves, when he leans down over his backside, hand reaching for the decorative container of olive oil in front of them. The pressure of Mr. Barber on his back, draped over his much smaller form, has him gasping. Watching Mr. Barber fumble with the bottle of oil makes his mind go fuzzy.

“Push your thighs together, come on. Tight. Tighter. There we go, that’s it.”

He feels like he’s wading through syrup, that heavy, sticky-sweet sensation he had not forgotten about filtering through his head, down his neck. He makes dull connections in his brain. Yes, olive oil is slick and messy. Yes, his thighs pressed together would make the perfect spot for Mr. Barber to fuck into. No, they still don’t have enough time to properly fuck before Jacob comes back from the store and they have to pretend that this wasn’t happening.

Teeth are the first thing to drag him out of his embarrassingly prematurely fucked-out brain. A dig of them into the nape of his neck, a hand pressing between his legs, Mr. Barber chuckling when his hand comes in contact with his sensitive dick. A burly arm wraps tightly around his waist as the other hand smears oil on the inside of his thighs, wets it up to get fucked.

He feels taken, feels overwhelmed, claimed. He gives Mr. Barber a throaty groan of confirmation as he’s slicked up and prepped to be used. He drags his arms up the counter, gives himself over to the moment entirely. When Mr. Barber presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek and makes space between their bodies to get his hand between them, he whimpers happily.

“Fuck, you must’a missed it. One time and that’s all it took to train this sweet ass, ain’t that right?”

He hadn’t realized he was presenting for Mr. Barber, even given their position.

While the space between them is for Mr. Barber to get a hand on his cock, it isn’t to slip inside of him. But while it isn’t to press inside of him, that doesn’t stop Mr. Barber from indulging himself and nudging the head of his cock against his hole. He almost thinks Mr. Barber is going to do it, is going to press into him without any prep and with this oil only. But with another sigh that turns into a groan, he presses down instead and slips his cock in the slot under his balls, between his thighs.

It’s different, something he isn’t used to, but it’s delicious nonetheless. To have Mr. Barber so close to where he desperately wants him, all pressed and snug up against his own balls, has him breathless damn near immediately. To feel him on almost every side, slick between his thighs, against the line of his own dick, has incoherent noises spilling from his mouth at the same rate.

“Fuck, that’s good, yeah. Keep yourself tight for me. God, you’re sweet.”

He feels like he’s getting fucked. It sounds like he’s getting fucked, slippery and lewd, the hot length of Mr. Barber’s cock sliding tight against his own achy dick. The most overwhelming part though, is the way Mr. Barber takes control of him, commands him and his body. There’s an arm tight around his waist, locking the two of them together, lips and a beard rubbing against his ear. When he goes to moan again, a bitty mewl, Mr. Barber is huskily shushing him.

“Shh practice, boy. Gotta be quiet. You don’t wanna get caught fuckin’ your best friend’s daddy, do you?”

He won’t last. He chokes on his noise, such a desperate one. Mr. Barber reaches forward and clamps a hand down around his mouth as he continues to messily fuck his cock between his thighs. With the hand around his mouth, his noises are muffled. He can’t stop them, doesn’t try to.

“Don’t want anyone knowin’ about how easy you are either, can’t have them knowin’ I’ve got a little slut on my hands.”

His moan is almost drowned out by the sound of Mr. Barber’s hips smacking up against his backside, by his own growl as he bends his knees and digs in tighter to his bent body. The constant stimulation of his balls and the underside of his dick is making him a bit delirious, is making his breaths hectic behind Mr. Barber’s palm. He thinks he might be able to feel his own spit on his chin.

“Shh, shh gotta practice, baby. For… fuck, for later when I crawl into your bed. Gonna fuck you later, gonna fill this fuckin’ ass up, give it what it wants.”

This time his noise is louder than anything else, a sob behind a hand, his own hands coming to grip at the edge of the counter. He moves with the momentum, finds himself fucking back into Mr. Barber’s body with a whine, wants more. It makes the older man groan, almost a growl, has him scrambling and pulling the hand away from his mouth and reaching for the bottle of oil once more.

“Please, god please, want it, want—”

A sloppy wet hand on his dick has him gasping, has him lurching in a strong grip. Mr. Barber’s grip is persistent, focused. The arm around his waist doesn’t falter, goes tighter to accommodate for his thrashing. Mr. Barber’s mouth runs as his big hand fucks itself over his dick and he’s left panting, holding back his whimpers, as he listens to Mr. Barber tell him all the things he is going to do to him later that night.

“Want your mouth on my cock, want you fuckin’ gaggin’ as I get some fingers in that boy cunt. Yeah? Y’like that? Gonna drag this one out, gonna put you face down just like this. You want me to fuck you face-down? Easier for you to stay quiet, better for me to get balls-deep. Think you can come more than once? Huh? Wanna find out?”

When he comes, he is unable to give Mr. Barber much of a warning. He’s almost certain that his noises give him away, the way his breath hitches and the way he spits out messy words. He shatters under Mr. Barber. There’s no other word to describe how he comes apart. He shakes and shatters and comes as Mr. Barber milks it out of him, tugs on his cock in long pulls.

The older man fucks himself to his own release, adding to the mess between his thighs with a series of guttural groans and a few pumps of his own hands to prolong his pleasure. It almost feels as if a few waves of fiery pleasure in his body are reserved for feeling Mr. Barber’s come land between his thighs, dirtying him up.

He’s a mess. He’s panting and his mind is foggy. Mr. Barber kisses him on the cheek, squeezes at his sides as he sighs. He wants to crumble to the floor and fall asleep there. He’s supposed to be young, spry, but Mr. Barber takes it out of him without even fucking him.

“Gotta get a move-on, kid. Go clean up,” Mr. Barber tells him with a pat on his stomach before a hot set of lips are on his ear. “I’ll dirty you up all over again tonight.”