#ilove blood

[xxbloodfein420xx]

writing you letters in blood n shit

[oso-nan]

hahhahahehehehhehegwhag hahhaha the

[ilove-townies]

❤

[flyaflush]

2 of the most meowsome things ive ever made // COMMS FOR MY GIRLFRIEND @funxxera !!

[lazarus---rising]

imgonna start sobbing [my moirail i love my moirail did you guys know that . I love them

[wriochilde]

this is insane faggot behavior

[goldiipond]

don and emma best friends. one of my greatest truths

[smarti-at-smogwarts]

OC Pride Challenge 2023 ⍚ Day 4 ⍚ Pan OCs ⍚ Colette Beaufort

She’s fucking impetuous and daring, a little too bold and way too fucking fearless.

[n0thing2me]

i wanna do my arms again

[wullam]

i watched American Psycho last night and GOD, that movie was good, so i knew i had to make a drawing of it or at least inspired from it, so i drew nathan with the rain coat but already covered in blood because why not

[xxbloodfein420xx]

[violetueur-archive]

∗ 8o﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  shopping  together .

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 » ACCEPTING

❝ Oh! I wanna go there! ❞ Nicolette leaves him no time to question, let alone look, as she eagerly tightens the grip of their intertwined fingers and drags him towards yet another shop. She’s lost count at this point of how many they’ve been to, and though Kyojuro’s free arm is occupied with a multitude of small bags and boxes, he’s not uttered a single complaint. The most she’d received was his fond teasing about how much she reminded him of Tengen, attracted to anything and expensive looking— flashy, she’d corrected him with a laugh.

He seems entirely content on letting her have her fun, and if she didn’t know him better she’d worry that he was forcing himself just for her sake. But, she did know him. Better than anyone. Nicolette could feel, without question, the way her amusement gave him his own. The way her joy delighted him, simply because he loved nothing more than for her to be happy— it was the same for her, as well. As long as Kyojuro was happy and they were together, she would go anywhere and do anything. Even something as mundane and normal as spending the day shopping, was a gift. For other people, it was nothing special, but for people like them... it was a rare moment of peace and a chance to pretend they were like everyone else.

Not demon slayers that risked their lives and risked losing each other, but just two people who were in love, going on a date like normal couples did.

Nicolette is grateful for her hashira salary right now, though Kyojuro has insisted more than once to pay for the useless, shallow things that have caught her eye. She would’ve fought him on it, but he’s as stubborn as her when it comes to spoiling, and no is not an answer he’ll accept. So she let him, and put up an equal fight when it came to buying things for him in return. Now, however, she’s pulling him towards a particular shop that seems to sell hair accessories. Her eyes practically sparkle as they’re drawn to the array of kanzashi and intricate hair pins on display, fingers brushing over the delicate designs. ❝ How about this one? Do you think it’d look nice? ❞

She points to one with two purple flowers and he nods, telling her that she would look lovely. His compliments are anything but rare, yet they make her heart skip a beat every time without fail, a light blush dusting her cheeks. She goes to reach for it, before her gaze is pulled towards another. The moment she sees it, Nicolette knows she must have it— it’s perfect. The hair pin is a shimmering gold and slightly curved, with a cluster of small, crimson and amber colored flowers at the top. She reaches out and grabs it without really thinking, moving quickly to gather some of her hair, leaving most of it down but twisting half of it into a bun in the back that she secures with the hair stick. The two short chains that hang from the flowers that hold similar colored beads make a soft twinkling sound as she moves her head to show him before turning back to face him.

Her face is flushed darker now, but her smile is wide and unhindered as she asks, ❝ What do you think? I think this one’s perfect. ❞ It reminds me of your eyes, she thinks but doesn’t say. It’s probably obvious, anyway. His smile mirrors hers, full of unwavering fondness and adoration as he lifts his hand, moving to tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear that were left with how she’d rushed to style it. His fingers brush tenderly across her temple before sliding down her cheek and cupping her jaw. 

❝ You’re perfect, ❞ he says, and means it, ❝ you’re beautiful. ❞

And her heart threatens burst from her chest as he leans down without hesitation the moment she reaches for him, placing a lingering kiss upon her lips.

[ilove-townies]

The Bride of Dracula

[certifiedskywalker]

Three Weddings and Your Funeral - Daemon Targaryen

Anonymous asked: Hi ilove ur writings so much ur so talented im so happy that ur back again, if ur taking requests could u please write one daemon targaryen with hightower reader or reader having feelings for him but he marries laena and afterwards rhaenyra also with something like betrayal during the dance i know im just rumbling but i trust you would make a masterpiece ur so good with ideas and words thank you.

AN: Thank you so much! Also, this is a great request with so many possibilities! So great, that I ended up writing two fanfictions for our Daemon boy! Keep an eye out for that and enjoy!

Before the Dance of Dragons, there was another waltz. You and Daemon Targaryen were always drifting in and out, always spinning about one another without moving at all; and your dance of stillness stretched from King’s Landing to the beaches of Essos, even the heat of Dragonstone.

“I despise weddings.”

“You despise this wedding,” you corrected.

When you received no quip in response, you looked over. Daemon’s eyes were elsewhere, skewed toward the center of the Throne Room. There, all around really, gold decor clashed with Velaryon sea green and silver, all while bathing the black and blood red of House Targaryen in warm decadence. But you knew that it was the dot of white at the heart of it all on which Daemon was caught. You were caught on him.

“She seems content.”

You leaned forward slightly as you spoke, allowing your gaze to trace the side of his face as he looked out upon the dance. The corner of his mouth was weighed downwards, expression heavy with a fiery sort of melancholia that was uniquely Daemon’s. You had seen it only a handful of times before, namely whenever Viserys banished him from King’s Landing; though, you liked to imagine that part of the heft had to do with how leaving meant leaving you.

“Seems,” Daemon grumbled, head lulling back to face you. When he saw you, his expression softened and you felt your chest tighten at the sight. “And it seems you, yourself are the furthest thing from content.”

He reached out a hand and brushed a stray strand of hair away from where it had fallen against your forehead. It took every small, burning stretch of will that you had to keep from leaning into Daemon’s touch. You stilled yourself against his gentleness and put on a stiff smile.

“Why do you say that?” You straightened your posture to reach for your chalice and Daemon’s hand fell away from your face as you took a long, hearty sip. 

It was then Daemon’s turn to lean in, his voice becoming a whisper that only you could hear. “For if you were in a wedding mood, you would be charming your adoring masses, jorrāelagon.”

He tipped his strong chin to the right and you followed the gesture’s path with your tipsy gaze. The sight that greeted you was a handful of nobles from across the southern sphere of Westeros, all eyeing you, Ladies and Lords alike. When the masses noted your attention, they dropped their cheer and turned in on themselves, whispering just as Daemon had to you. Letting out a sigh through your nose, you leaned into him once more.

“I believe they are adoring my spot beside the Rogue Prince,” you met Daemon’s eyes as his moniker left your lips. You found fire in the brightness that gleamed in his irises and it shot through you like something wild. 

“Well,” he drawled softly, “then their desire is sorely misplaced.”

You watched as Daemon too reached for his chalice and took a swig. With no regard for decorum, he leaned back in his chair and threw an arm out the back of yours. His warmth licked the back of your shoulders, through the thin garments that you hung on your frame to fit in with the surrounding affair. For a moment, you wish that you cared as little as Daemon did, wished that you could recline and decline the reality of custom.

But that wish lasted only for that moment as Daemon turned back to look towards the center of the room, to the white dot, and you saw that you were wrong. His chest heaved with a deep inhale that finished with a shudder, and when he set his chalice back down, his hand immediately curled into a white-knuckled fist. Daemon cared too much.

Just you were about to reach for his hand, in the hopes of melting his anger, of easing whatever ache, the Rogue Prince moved. Your outstretched fingers fell to the carved tabletop as you watched Daemon clamber to his feet. 

“I need more wine,” he mused, craning his neck to the side to give you a smile. “In the name of contentment, of course.”

You could not help the mirrored smile that spread across your lips. “Of course.”

Daemon gave you a wink and set off. You watched him, as much as you could, as he cut through the swirling crowd of clashing color. When you lost sight of him completely, you let your eyes fall back to the table where Daemon’s still half-filled chalice sat. Alarmed by the lingering pool of Arbor Red, you looked back to the crowd, eyeing the gaps between bodies.

The last clear glimpse you caught before retiring for the evening was one of Daemon circling Laena Velaryon, who was a vision in her gown of silver and gold.

You clung to Daemon, your arms wrapped desperately tight around his taut torso and face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades. He smelled of sun, freshly poured wine, and dragon. Though, you blamed Caraxes for the ladder. 

The Blood Wyrm writhed beneath you as he soared against the Narrow Sea. You did not dare to look out across the blue vastness, knowing too well that the sight would send you tilting to and fro. No, you much preferred the dark behind your eyelids. Your stillness also had the benefit of an excuse to be so close to Daemon.

For that alone, some part of you, not knowing fear, wished Caraxes would never land.

Eventually, he did, with his spindly limbs sinking slightly on impact. You jostled, with the front of your body pressing entirely against Daemon’s back. Heat spread to the farthest reaches of your limbs and whipped back to your face where it burned beside embarrassment. Yet, you clung to Daemon still as Caraxes wiggled about. 

You opened your eye a crack and were greeted with the strong slope of the Rogue Prince’s shoulder. Peeking just over that, you saw what was to blame for the dragon’s unusual unsteadiness. Sand.

“Paez sir, Caraxes. Paez, syt īlva jorrāelatan mēre.”

With your closeness, you felt the low rumble of Daemon’s voice as High Valyrian fell from his lips like a song. Or perhaps like a lullaby as Caraxes, hearing it, seemed to set himself into a balance on the shifting sands. He lowered his worm-like body and the sun-soaked ground rushed up toward you with the movement, tricking your senses into a false fall.

Your hands curled into fists, fastening Daemon to you as your body braced for impact.

“Ao sagon ȳgha,” you heard and felt him say, accompanied by one of his hands reaching around to rub your back soothingly. “You’re safe.”

Daemon held you steady until Caraxes settled entirely with the gentlest of thuds. The dragon let out a nasally, high-pitched cry as if to tell his riders to dismount, and, based on how quickly his hand fell away, Daemon was quick to appease his beast. 

“Here, hold here,” you felt his hands guide yours. The skin of his palms was rougher in comparison to yours, with years of battlefield callouses and countless burns. He folded your fingers over something hard and your barely open eyes saw the red, horn-like scale you then held. “You have him?”

You nodded and Daemon huffed, his hands racing up your arms to your face. He cupped your cheeks and tilted your head up so that, even through the sliver of your eyelids, you could see his seriousness. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

His tone had you open your eyes more fully. “I have him.”

Daemon smiled and then, with practiced ease, slipped down off of Caraxes. You saw him, how small he looked standing on the sand from where you were, still sat on his steed. Once he too found balance, Daemon threw his arms up to you. 

“Come now, I have you.”

You were too in your head to call back down. Instead, you focused your efforts on swinging your legs off to one side of Caraxes without letting your hands slip from his bumpy scale. When you finally positioned yourself for your descent, you saw Daemon’s grin widen.

“I have you.”

The tilt of his tone sounded like his smile and you nearly forgot that you were perched upon a fire-breathing beast. Only when you tried to take a step toward Daemon did you remember that fact. Your foot slid along Caraxes' smooth scales until you landed on a protruding bone or some other growth. You had to bite back a yelp at the slip.

“Paez, slow, issa jorrāelagon,” Daemon called up and you shook your head.

“I’m no dragon, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, jorrāelagon, you understand more than you know,” Daemon said, his grin widening. “Now, fall to me.”

Forgetting again and, seeing only Daemon, you fell, really fell. Immediately, you felt his hands, warm and large, on your waist as he guided you to the sand. Your own hands gripped his upper arms as you fought to find balance, and you felt the muscle there, even beneath the thick fabric of his tunic sleeves. Though, when Daemon dropped his touch, you did too.

“I recall you enjoying rides with Caraxes. You’ve grown stiff since it seems.”

“We were both younger then,” you pointed out, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, “and, yes, less stiff. But one factor in my flying hasn’t changed.”

Daemon raised a silver-blond brow at you. “And that is?”

“You. My flying is always at your behest.”

“Yes, well,” Daemon raised his hands for Caraxes and, like a loyal hound, the dragon turned his snout into his rider’s touch. “I always have good reason. Here, give me your hand.”

“Daemon-”

“Here.” His hand was already on yours, spreading your fingers out to pet Caraxes. Under your palm, you felt his massive, heated breath, like a living flame. If it were not for Daemon’s hand lingering atop yours, you would have stared at the Blood Wyrm in awe. Instead, your eyes were fixed on Daemon, how bright his expression turned, no melancholia in sight, at your appealing to the beast. 

“If I did not know better, I would think you a Targaryen for how Caraxes bends to you.”

In unison, your and Daemon’s hands fell once more as you both turned towards the voice. Walking down from a dune, Laena, still sea green and silver, walked over. Her curls bounced and blew in the breeze, her stride like waves. She was part of the beach, pulled right up from the sea and sand.

“My dear,” Daemon said, moving to meet her while you stalled by Caraxes, who cooed like a saddened pheasant. “I’ve returned with our witness.”

Your brows furrowed at the term, at their tight embrace, how Daemon held her. “Witness?”

Even with a handful of paces between you, you could see Daemon’s smile. It was not bright or breath-catching, but it was there all the same. Just as his arm was there, snug around Laena’s waist, holding her to his side. How far from you Daemon seemed.

Even further when he answered, so painfully simply, “you the witness to our elopement.” 

You thought your legs gave out for a moment like you were falling yet again; but when you reached out to brace yourself, your palm met the bumpy head of Caraxes. He nudged you with his huge red snout and a glint in his amber, serpentine eye reflected the ache that suddenly claimed your chest. Tears sprang from your eyes at the beast’s sympathy, but when you looked back to Daemon and Laena, their worried faces, you smiled through it.

“I’m honored.”

You should have known that accepting an invitation from Daemon Targaryen was a mistake. Seemingly ceaseless years of heeding his call had acquainted you with the subsequent pains of your dutiful answer. Yes. Yes, Daemon, I’ll meet you there.

Once there, Daemon would tear out your heart and skewer its still-beating flesh on the sharpest edge of Dark Sister. So routine this waltz was, that your chest had begun to ache whenever you caught sight of the shining, Valyrian Steel of the ancestral House Targaryen blade. It had started long before you first noticed it, when Daemon dragged you to Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, and had endured in the years after Daemon’s own wedding to Laena. Yet, despite this rife history and your better judgment, you always answered. Yes, Daemon, I’ll meet you there.

“It's been too long since my last visit.”

As the words left your mouth, you cringed at the taste of them. It was the sentimentality of them. How many times had you met him here, on the heated shores of Dragonstone? Apparently, enough times to remember it like a far-off home to grow misty-eyed over. You hated it, this tie, but you loved it too. Such a duality also applied to the very man who had called you back to Dragonstone. 

“It has. The halls have missed you nearly as much as myself,” Daemon said, inky charm dripping from his tongue. His smile loosened any tightening ache in you, in the sore core of your chest. When he extended his hand to help you off the dock, it was as if you never ached at all.

“Dolling out the flattery already? My, I must be in for it.”

The brightness of Daemon’s expression wavered for but a moment, a fall undetectable to the untrained eye. You knew him better than most. 

“Daemon?”

He dropped your hand as soon as your shoes hit the sandy shore. “Let us walk the beach and…talk for a while.”

“Let’s,” you said through slightly gritted teeth. 

Naturally, you fell into step beside Daemon and tread quietly for a few paces. As the noise of the dock grew softer and softer, you grew anxious. With Daemon, silence was like a sin: pervasive and punishable by sharing the hard truth caught in his mouth. His words were like knives sometimes.

When only the sea could be heard, you spoke up. “How are you faring? Your daughters?”

“They are well, well enough to send me ravens about their exploits, their lessons. I am well enough to read them, sometimes enough to write back.”

You nodded, remembering fondly the feel of parchment between your fingers. “Baela sent a raven to me, a fortnight ago now. She asked if I had heard from you after Laena-”

“She has always thought the world of you,” Daemon interrupted. “Whenever I told her how you fly with me on Caraxes, Baela needed to fly with me too, right then, to be like you.”

“She is her father’s daughter, with all that impulse,” you quipped, knocking your shoulder teasingly against Daemon’s. “And all that feeling. She is worried for you, she wrote me so.”

Daemon went quiet then, stalling in the sand as you continued on. You took only two more steps past him before you realized he was caught on your words. When you looked back, Daemon’s eyes were focused downward, brows furrowed in thought maybe. Or feeling.

You took a step back to start the close the distance between you. “Daemon, what are you not telling me? Please, I have not heard from you in months.”

“Feeling. Impulse,” he seemed to spit out the words. “It is all fire, it is all my blood.”

“Daemon,” another step and you were reaching for him. He let your hands fasten about his forearm, pulling it straight against his side. You clutched him, trying to ground him. “Tell me.”

“You have not heard from me for you are one of the few I fear judgment from,” Daemon said at last, his crystalline eyes meeting yours with such a heavy, sad seriousness that his very irises appeared darker. “I do not fear lightly.”

You shook your head, “you have nothing to fear from me.”

Daemon’s fear hand rose up then, as you clung to his other arm. His fingers moved, brushing over the peaks of your face with such delicacy that your nerves abated. As if Daemon were right about the pre-Doom Valyrians and their magic touch. His hand fell before you thought to tell him as much.

“Yet I do and it is infuriating,” he growled, “because you should be nothing to me…but you are everything.”

Then, it was your turn to drop your hands. A renewed ache claimed you and heat rose to your face with a vengeance. You took a step back and watched Daemon’s face twist in a way you had never seen before. Fear.

“I am to wed Rhaenyra.”

There was that sin of silence again, accompanied by the subsequent pains of answering an invitation from Daemon. “Rhaenyra.”

“It is a union-”

“This has been a long time coming,” you said, the ache embittering you. “Am I here to be your witness again, like some beck-and-call hound?”

“Jorrāelagon,” he shook his head and continued quickly, “ao se eman issare umptan va se egros hen jēda, va moriot māzis se jāre. Iksā tolī sȳz naejot sagon tied naejot nyke-”

“Speak plainly, Daemon,” you snapped. “Do not hide behind that godsforsaken language.”

Seemingly fueled by your own anger, Daemon lunged towards you, closing the gap once more with his hand grabbing at your chin. Despite the rushed roughness of his movement, his very touch, like before, was gentle. It bordered on careful, even as he made you meet his eyes.

“Love,” he paused, his tone cold; an objective translation. “You and I have been stayed on the edge of time, always coming and going. You are too good to be tied to me…kesan daor ivestragī ao zālagon. I will not let you burn.”

He held your chin still as the last words fell from his lips. His lips. Daemon was tantalizingly close and with the music stopping, your dance together finally ending, the urge to lean up the last stretch to kiss him was overwhelming. It washed over you like the tide, the very one that nipped at your heels as Daemon held you; though it did nothing to quell your rising anger as you realized…

“And you knew of my feelings for you, this- this entire time?  You lead me along with invitations to be at your side while knowing You bid me attend your wedding while knowing, and you tell me of another on the horizon?” You wrenched yourself from him, “How dare you?”

“Like you said, all that impulse. I did not think, I only wanted.”

“Now you aim to control by wedding your niece and directing my fate? You will not let me burn, but you will turn yourself to ash over a throne that will never be wholly yours? It will be Rhaenyra that sits it, not you.”

The truth incensed Daemon, who charged at you, hands reaching once more. His fingers dug into the fabric and flesh about your hips as he pulled you flush to him. You had nowhere to look but at him. You had nothing else to feel but his heat.

Then, his lips. His lips were closed about yours in a rushed, manic union of flesh. Daemon’s hands squeezed at you, pulling you impossibly close as the kiss grew deeper. His tongue knocked against yours wildly. Wanting. Wanted.

Daemon wanted you, but you ached still, and the ache drove you away.

You leaned back, your lips falling from Daemons. He chased after them, pecking the corner of your mouth, entreating you for more. You gave him a taste, a softer kiss, but it wasn’t enough. At least, not enough for you.

“What does this mean, Daemon?” You opened your eyes but saw that his were still closed. His breathing was still sharp, still quick. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours, “just as it doesn’t matter who sits the Iron Throne. Like fire, it is my blood.”

You swallowed, hoping to distract yourself from the stinging tears behind your eyes. “And it will be your funeral.”

Daemon opened his eyes then and met your gaze. “I know.”

You pressed your forehead against his a touch harder, a not-quite-a-kiss-kiss, before you pushed his hands from your hips and turned away from Daemon Targaryen for the last time.

[slicznymartwy]

Hello, loved the way you answered my last ask, your writing is amazing <333 I got a bit intrigued as in the notes you said Billy would love corrupting his SO so I would like to request a little something expanding upon the idea of that

in short, i would love for him to make me worse </333

ilove ur requests so much omgggg this gave me an idea heh heh .. gonna elaborate more in the notes but i just wanted to get this out first warning: dub-con, obsessive behavior, billy in general, not edited or proofread

☾⋆⁺₊ billy lenz x corrupted!reader

you can hear your housemates downstairs. they're laughing and drinking, which was standard for a saturday night. you could hear the clinking of glass from time to time, and you think an argument breaks out between two of the girls. it's difficult to tell when the loudest noise to you is coming from your wet lips, wrapped around him.

your knees hurt, but they're slowly getting past that and to a more comfortable numbness. on the other hand, your jaw aches terribly, and it only seems to get worse with how billy - you only think that's his name - is keeping an unrelenting pace against your tongue.

he's not very big, although you really wouldn't know what to compare that too. you've only seen one other dick before his, but that was in high school. barb likes to tell stories about the guys she meets, and she's either exaggerating or billy is much smaller than average (you're more likely to believe that barb is exaggerating).

his size barely matters because it feels massive in your mouth. he forces you to take more of him, and he holds your head firmly as his dick slips in and out against your tongue. you're drooling, you can feel it on your chin. you love it. god, you love it.

you feel wicked. you've been ruined by a stranger that you sometimes aren't sure really exists. he could be a ghost for all you know - an evil specter that haunts college students and comes on them while they sleep.

he's surprisingly quiet, but when you look up at him you're scared by the look in his eyes. wild and opened wide, turned black in the shadow. he barely reacted beyond the quickened breath. your mouth was so wet, and when his cock brushes against the back of your throat you gag and cough.

billy pulls away, letting you gasp wetly for air. his cock is shiny with your spit, and you hardly recognize yourself when you lean in to lick at his length even as you pant. you remember a few weeks ago when the furthest you've ever gone was a kiss.

the night can't last forever, but it's still cut short with the sound of one of the girls bidding everyone goodnight. she's drunk and slow up the stairs, but billy rushes to hide himself back into his pants and climb the ladder without a word.

you had no chance, not with your brain slow and addled with promises of getting fucked. you're still kneeling in the alcove by the stairs, leaning slightly against the ladder that billy climbed up.

"oh god, are you okay?" barb asks, seeing you on the ground. "what's wrong?"

belatedly, you realize your cheeks are wet with tears shed during the blowjob, and your mouth was still wet and likely swollen. sniffing, you turn your face away and try to wipe off the moisture.

"i'm okay," you say, trying to get to your feet slowly. it hurts as blood starts to flow again. "boy troubles."

"boy troubles? since when did you have a boy that troubles you?" she teases.

you shrug, not in the mood to bicker. once hidden in your bedroom, door unlocked, you lay flat on your bed and stare at the ceiling. your mind flashes with images of come stains and his tongue in between your legs.

notes:

i think for the right kind of person (me) billy could be an attractive prospect. someone who's lonely and feels undesirable suddenly has someone who's absolutely desperate for them .... say less heh heh heh

this is nasty but i like the thought of insert maybe touching themselves into the phone .. like .... letting billy hear how it sounds .. im sure he would have some Things to say about it lolol

but honestly i think that reader would eventually get really upset by it all because they realize billy isn't some prince charming. he doesn't Actually love you because of you. he's not going to take care of you

he's going to use your body because you let him.

he wants to hurt you, he threatens to kill you all the time. even when he's got his tongue deep inside you, he'll pull away to whisper how he'll do it.

and that starts to turn you on too

very vicious cycle

i mean maybe he thinks he loves you. but obv it's not a normal love. and i think that would make it so much worse because he might tell you he loves you, which would just give you false hope.

didnt mean for this to be so angsty but basically he fucks you sloppy and hard and he breaks you, because even years later you'll never feel as turned on as when someone was calling you a pig whore

[wriochilde]

I JUST HEARD YOU'RE SO CREEPY IN AN EDIT AND WHEN I TELL YOU I SCREAMED LIKE A FANBOY