#nylon sheath

[1800titz]

HI FRIENDS. WOOOOOOOOOOO. Camprry. Aimed for 5K or less and managed to get wordy again. Reader insert and basically pure smut. This one was supposed to be vanilla with some praise kink (and exhibitionism if you SQUINT since it’s in a tent) but….. hahahahaha….. WEEEELLLLLLL.

CONTENT WARNINGS: oral sex, face fucking, exhibitionism-ish if you squint, choking-ish if you squint, light dom/sub, praise kink, daddy kink, intercourse

WC: 7.5K (whoops)

There is nothing remotely sexy about a camping trip. 

In fact, Y/N thinks that if she were to deduce a list of words upon first thought when it came to camping, sexy would be the furthest one from qualifying. 

There’s nothing sexy about reverting to caveman-ism, sleeping on the ground, sheathed by some paper-thin layer of nylon and polyester and plastic support beams. There’s nothing sexy about pit stains from the lack of air conditioning or its antithetical twin sister, the bumps that rise over chilly skin and trembling bones without the luxury of an electric heater. There’s nothing innately erotic about kindling fire like electricity doesn’t exist, and cooking hot dogs on skewers over the flame, and perpetually swatting at insects that incessantly stick to shins and calves like the flesh there is coated in sugar. 

There is something sexy, though, when it comes to the way Harry’s arms work as he pitches a tent, bi’s and tri’s intermingling in an alluring duet, pumping and settling with each motion. The sleeves of his tee ride up when he raises the limbs, and sunlight catches shadow in ridge and sinew of muscle. There’s something sexy in the way his back ripples, in the way that thin fabric does nothing to cover what she imagines — no, what she’s well aware lies underneath. The same traps and lats she’s scraped her nails over and dug into. The same shoulders she’s sunk her teeth into to bridle cries of bliss. 

There’s something hot about the cinch in his brow when he works, something alluring in the curl at the plush of his mouth when he turns his head and beams lopsidedly at something that their friend has said, too low for Y/N to catch. There’s something sexy in the way that his eyes skim her frame when she’s sitting in a fold-out chair with sunglasses. When his eyes glide over his shoulder. It’s in the most subtle way. There’s something sexy in the way he tears that gaze away. 

There’s something sexy in the way that no one around them knows she spends nights bouncing on his cock. 

This lustrous affair — this sneaky fling. This filthy, dirty secret that only the two of them share, slinking and sidling through the shadows. 

Really, it’s nothing more than a raunchy circumstance of friends-with-benefits, only kept on the down-low to evade prying questions from friends and the sickly confrontation of …feelings. Because it’d be easy to admit they’re fucking, that they’ve been hooking up for months after an impromptu, late night of drinking. But then it’s sort of cementing, right? At least, in a way. 

There’s a status that floats about when you confess you’re sleeping with somebody — when you admit that you’ve entangled them into your routine beyond one mishap of sex. In the eyes of your friends, admitting that you’ve upkept a sex buddy through the roll of the seasons is, like. Well, it’s basically admitting some form of something sentimental. 

They’re just fucking. They’re just friends that fuck. And the way that nobody around them has any sort of suspicion that he’ll most likely be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night for that... 

That’s sexy, the young woman thinks. 

They’re coiled around the campfire once the sun has ducked out and simmered off behind the trees, and Y/N thinks about it. She watches the shape of his features glow beyond the crackle of the flame, and she thinks about the way his nose bumps over her clit when he licks into her. She watches his mouth move when he talks, a muted strawberry that’s dimmed in the night, and she thinks about the cushion of it pressing open-mouthed kisses to her flesh. She’s in his sweatshirt, because she had to borrow one, and it smells like him. She’s coated in it — his scent. Warm, pleasant musk and remnants of tantalizing cologne. It reminds her of the way the same sweatshirt had been discarded and draped over the foot of her bed haphazardly one night, as he kneed his way onto the mattress and clambered over her, fingertips exploring and tongue trailing. It reminds her of the way he smells when he brushes past her in the company of others, just solid weight and warmth. He does it nonchalantly, but the green of his eyes is knowing and flirtatious. That’s when the same scent teases her senses. It reminds her of the way he smells when he’s up close and personal, when he’s rocking against her and groaning softly into the nook between her shoulder and her neck. 

She stares at his hands — the way they lay over the armrests of his fold-out, the way lengthy digits adorned with chunky rings cradle a can of beer. She imagines the same fingers wrapped over her throat, squeezing lightly, in that way that he does. 

Y/N isn’t panting into the chill of the air. The white of her exhales just surface …quicker. His hands, and his smell, and his mouth are entirely irrelevant to the matter. 

By the time they all retire to their respective tents, the young woman is pleased to get a breather from his hands and his …ludicrously plush, smiley mouth. At least in a public circumstance, so she can’t be caught fawning over his mannerisms from a distance. The smell …she can’t escape that. In all honesty, it should be shameful, basking in the scent of a sweatshirt. Instead, she coils up in it under the covers.

She’s turned on her side with gritty rock coursing through wire, chords of guitar and drums rippling out from the little speakers in her ears, entirely engrossed as she scrolls through what little apps can manage access without a durable station of wifi. 

Y/N nearly squeals when an arm slinks over her chest, when a palm nudges over her mouth. And then another hand is plucking at one of the earbuds, giving her leeway into the crinkle of the sleeping bag, crickets, and the sound of bated breaths behind her. 

A low baritone, hushed and teasing against the same ear where the earbud’s been removed, “Easy, baby.” 

The gentle murmur that his lips shape does, frankly, little to soothe the hammer of her heart. In fact, if anything, the muscle soars in pace behind bone with the way cushiony pink grazes her jaw, the way his warm weight presses up behind her. 

“Easy.” 

She’d sit up and turn over her shoulder if she had the opportunity, but the same inky, muscly arm she’d admired hours earlier cradles over, preventing the motion. Harry can tell too, evidently, based on his soft snicker. He’s pleased from the way her head juts to steal a peer back. He’s pleased when she doesn’t succeed.

Instead of letting up, he takes the same earbud he’d pulled out and presses it into his own ear so that they’re sharing the set, crooning, “What are you listening to? Hm?” 

He sponges another kiss to the side of her throat, a stray tendril flopping over his forehead. Y/N knows that he’s listening to it, too, then. She knows from the playful, little nudge of his head with the rhythm, from the way the cord of the earbuds grows taut, from the sound of mirth he muzzles to her skin when he drives his mouth over the side of her neck. The young woman wriggles her arm, just enough for his grip to loosen, and then uses the opportunity to raise her head to take her own earbud out. The motion jostles Harry from the nook he’s seemingly made homage in, and he nips at her earlobe in protest. Anyways, the whole thing sends a chill wracking down her shoulders. 

When he lets up, Y/N twists in his grasp to her back. The earbuds splay over her chest, his own discarded, too. There’s still music seeping softly. She blinks, gaze tracing over his features, basked in shadow and soft amusement. 

“Hey,” she croaks, her voice catching on a crack with the effort to keep quiet. 

And Harry drags a thumb down her stomach, fingers meddling where the fabric of her (no, his) hoodie has rucked up. The ticklish sensation makes her shift a little. His mouth quirks, and he smooths over the same spot again. 

“Hey, you.” 

Her lips part and her tummy jolts when he slips the chilly pad of his thumb back over the line he’d run for a third time. She wants to bring her own hand up and trace the contours of his cocky mouth with her fingertips. It shapes the words, like baritone bathed in honey, “Ticklish?” 

When he brushes over a fourth time, her arm twitches, and her hand shoots for his wrist, squeezing lightly. Corners of muted pink spring up, dimples scoring softly. 

“Yes,” she gripes in a whisper, but the gripe doesn’t come out very gripey at all. Instead, it’s sort of small — that’s on account of his warm weight shifting onto her. Which is a new development, and it’s one that stirs something familiar and warm below the sleeping bag she’s nestled into, half-zipped and mostly just thrown over. 

His sturdy thigh slips in the empty gap between her own, and Harry ducks his head, the dimples deepening and the glint of white teeth escaping through the part of his lips. And then he dips lower until his face is nearly tucked into her hair. 

“I missed you,” his admission is soft-spoken. It’d be sort of tender if it didn’t come out so …hungry. 

Y/N takes in a little, shuddery breath. The same hand that's settled over her hipbone comes up to brush hair away from her throat, and a mouth stipples kisses over her pulse. His voice is a raspy, desirous tease, “Did you miss me?” 

Christ. She thinks that maybe if he were telepathic and had even a brief glimpse into the filthy things that’d cycled behind her skull for the duration of the day, then he’d only be more smug. 

That’s dangerous. 

She’s glad he isn’t. 

The young woman hums — an apathetic sound that feigns contemplation, like his touch doesn’t light every nerve ending in her system on fire, like she hasn’t spent hours staring at his arms, his mouth, his hands. Like she hasn’t been picturing expanses of muscle and skin hidden under his tee, imagining her tongue tracing through the vales of his v-line and her fingertips following the trail of hair below his belly button, slipping lower and lower…

“No?” Harry murmurs, lips bumping wetly over her flesh. What follows is a gentle exhale, and then his mouth is sponging another open-mouthed kiss, and his tongue brushes warmth against her, like he’s petting with it over her pulse. He caresses all the way back to her ear. Something dirty and thrilling slinks down the knobs of her spine when he mumbles, unconvinced, “I think you’re lying to me, little miss.” 

Her breath stutters. 

“I think,” Harry muses, fingers dipping beneath the shroud of the sleeping bag and smoothing back over her waist testingly, “that if I had a look right now, you’d be a drippy mess.”

Her throat bobs on a swallow. Petulantly, and so obviously feigning, Y/N tips her chin back and tells him, “…Not at all.”

Instead of smoothing tips of digits back over the naked, little expanse of skin again, they venture lower, teasing at the waistband of her sleep shorts. “I think your sweet, little pussy would tell me otherwise, wouldn’t it, pet?” 

Another deep breath rolls her chest under the cushioned sheet of fabric when fingertips dwell in. Just centimeters, practically. They retreat. Harry presses another kiss just below her ear. 

“Hm? It’s been so empty all day long. Achy, I bet.” Chills rise awake all over when he murmurs, purely condescending pity painting every syllable, “Poor baby.” 

He’s always had it — this gift of filthy, dirty gab. This ability to render her craving and wanting with his words like it’s innate, practically. She shouldn’t be surprised when he shifts over her, just enough for her to feel how hard he is, tips of his curls tickling at her cheek, “Could stuff it full. Make it all better.” 

Y/N sighs. Finally. Like it’s a release of the whole act, and the seams of it come apart to bliss when he nips with his teeth. She cranes her neck to give him more room to work. 

“Would you like that?” 

And she would, she thinks. Very, very much, and his lingering fingers — when they pull out and he hooks a thumb in and just tugs down a smidge — remind her of how hot she suddenly is. How hot everything is, despite the chill in the air. Instead of answering, the young woman nudges with her chin — a nod. An unsatisfactory one, evidently. 

“Words,” Harry mutters. It’s gentle, and quiet, and she hopes the polar opposite of the way he’s going to fuck her.

She cranes her neck more and splays her thighs what little she can under his weight. It’s kind of a plea. It’s also sort of pathetic. “Yes.” 

But it makes his mouth crook. His palm draws away. No. That wasn’t the intended effect. She curbs her sound of protest, but he can tell that it’s bridled in the chamber — she knows because the curl of mirth grows wider. He sits up a bit, bracing on his arms until he hovers over her, and then he sighs, jade sliding to the sector of the bag that’s zipped. Slowly, like he’s teasing, he grips over the notch and tugs. 

“What d’you do if you want me to stop?” Harry beckons, nearly a whisper but not quite, fingers skimming up under his hoodie. The same hoodie clings to her flesh, and every nerve sparks alive at the touch, striking her lungs to expand heavier. The air catches when the pads of his fingers graze up the vale of her sides and siphon a flinch. 

“Teacup,” Y/N breathes the safeword in response, and the fingertips climb her ribs like a staircase, pleased. 

“Good girl,” He tells her, and the pads sink back over, bumping over the ridges, and he tugs the fabric up over her chest. 

Her bra is red. It’s a nice detail, all lacy cupped over her chest. He draws the tip of an index over the edge and says, “Cheeky,” like his comment isn’t, “…Did you wear this to get fucked?” 

The young woman gnaws at her lip. Innately, it’s not an accurate statement. She didn’t wear it to get fucked — not when she knew he’d be slipping into her tent in the midst of the night and fucking into her regardless of the state of her underthings. But it’s a nice touch when he ducks, palm squeezing over one of her tits, and tacks on all low against her ear, like it’s praise, “Because you know I love you in red, pet.” 

The satisfaction of pleasing him buds in her chest, right at the core of her ribcage, warmth pitted deep, and it slinks out like beams of gooey sunshine, winding and seeping through the cavity until her veins practically thrum yellow. She’s buzzing beneath him, pulse thumping and fibers of muscle twitching. It makes his mouth curve — the way he feels her trembling under him like she’s a taut string, and he traces a thumb over her mouth. 

Then jade flits to her chest, and Harry takes the thumb away to hook fingers under the cups and tug. They settle under her tits, perking them, and the way the wire settles over her ribcage isn’t particularly comfortable, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when he shimmies down her body and draws a stripe down with his tongue, all the way from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the bra, settling in between. He kisses down her stomach, green salacious and twinkling up through shadow at her, and his tongue draws a circle around her belly button. His mouth quirks there, too, because it makes her flinch. Because he knew it would. Harry brushes with wet taste buds lower, settles on a side, low on her tummy, and sucks a pressing kiss. Her whole spine wrings and writhes, arching when he pairs the sensation with a dull graze of his hand over a nipple. It’s barely anything, but it’s a touch she longs for. And she doesn’t know why, but it always lights her on fire when the pleasure entwines with something that makes her want to squirm out of her own skin.  

Because when he turns the graze into a pinch and a roll, when he hones on the drag of his tongue and the suckling of his mouth, when he skirts featherlight fingertips up her side like he’s plucking invisible strings, the yellow thrums red, and hot, and hungry. When his mouth lets up and he drags wet lips to curl over the opposite nipple and the featherlight turns more purposeful, squeezing at sensitive flesh, this knocked-out unph escapes her, like a bridled grunt he’s punched from her. Like a half-laugh, like a moan, like a mottled gasp, like discomfort and please-don’t-stop enmeshed, curbed out of desperation. It makes the red fucking neon. 

Harry withdraws with a pop from the bud, and the air bites onto the wet to replace his mouth. The ambiance of rickets and cold reminds her that they’re kind of, sort of, definitely in public, only really shielded from said public (and the intrusive presence of their friend group) by thin sheets of nylon erected with plastic poles. Her eyes say it all then — this hesitation sparking, lashes bouncing and bounding from the nervous shift of her pupils, working from his eyes to his plush mouth and back as he rises to settle over her more. 

“They’re asleep,” he promises, a hushed murmur he seals to her own mouth in a sloppy half-kiss. His top lip ghosts over her cupid's bow, and he smooths a hand back over the vale of her waist where he’d squeezed a second ago. Her chest rolls under him, and her mouth parts, just a little to let a mottled little sound escape, like a wheezing gasp she’s muffled. 

And he muffles it more with his own lips, pressing against her. The sleeping bag rustles, and it’s quiet beyond the stilted sheets barring the wilderness. Harry’s hand skims down. 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Harry murmurs into her mouth, palm trailing until it stills at the waistband of her shorts, fingertip lingering over an expanse of skin below her belly button that he’s well aware will have her squirming. Y/N jerks. “Here? Or… maybe…”

The young woman practically does a squished, weighted version of a body roll beneath him when he moves his hand to her inner thigh, dragging the pad of his index over the sensitive skin higher up. “Maybe …here? …No, I don’t think so…” 

His tongue licks into her mouth when she opens wider for him, desperate for the taste of him on her tongue, and she nearly gasps over that same tongue — loudly — when his palm cups unceremoniously between her legs. “…I think you want me here. That’s about right, isn’t it?” 

Y/N makes a little noise — it’s something between desperation and wordless agreement, and it quirks the corners of Harry’s mouth, carving dimples in beside his smug beam. The hand withdraws so suddenly she wants to melt into the hungry soil. 

“Yeah, that’s it, sweet thing,” he declares, voice hushed, a bass-deep admission soft-spoken and colored with teasing.

Instead, he presses up until he’s hovering over her and then knees his way back, and then his fingers tuck up under the waistband of her shorts. When he discards them into the beginnings of a pile of clothing beside them, coaxing her hips to rise up enough with a soft word, blood teems into her cheekbones, like it’s all new and foreign. 

It’s not. 

It’s the most comforting and familiar when he traces a fingertip over the cleft at the crotch of her panties, the most familiar when he shimmies his fingertips under the sides of the fabric at her hips and tugs those off, too. It’s familiar when he holds a leg up, fingers gentle at her calf, and sponges kisses up her leg from her ankle to her inner thigh. It’s familiar when his tongue dances over hot, slick, flesh in craving, when it rolls around her clit and circles back. When he’s amused by the proof that he was right, that she is soaked, and his ego inflates like a hot air balloon. It’s familiar in the draw of his tongue, in the brush of his lips, in the way his fingers brush over her thighs, over her hole, over the sensitive areas in between. It’s familiar in the way that she watches stars speckle in the darkness behind her clenched eyelids, in the way that Harry doesn’t let up even as she pants and wrings her own fingers into his curls. In the way that he only responds with a moan against her at the rough treatment of his scalp.  

It’s somewhere between heaven and hell, teetering on the wire, when he laps over her pulsing cunt. His irises flicker up when she shudders, when Y/N makes a futile attempt to clasp her thighs over his head and prevent the light drag of his tongue over her oversensitive button. Instead, he tucks a palm against one of her legs and holds it down, plush lips curling around an ‘o’ and sucking. Every muscle seizes, her fingers twitching and struggling to curl into the thinly stuffed fabric of the sleeping bag. She bridles a whole-body thrash, neck straining as her breath stutters. 

“Please— plea— it’s too much—“ Y/N swallows midway her begging to avoid choking on her own spit, and that’s cute, Harry thinks. 

Aw, Y/N thinks he’d coo up at her from between her thighs, if his mouth wasn’t occupied at her core, those are pretty words. They don’t sound like a safeword, though. 

He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say anything, humming quietly over her clit (honestly, she can’t tell if it’s in protest or agreement) and rolling a slow circle over nerves that are spent and nearly raw post his caress. 

Her chest is still rolling when he clambers his way up onto her, kneeing around her sides and then coaxing her arms up into a stretch. Harry cages those with firm thighs at the roots of the limbs, kneeing his way higher until he’s hovering over her chest and admiring her, all pliant and worn out and obedient beneath him. He sniffs, head cocked and eyes glimmering, and then sighs when he tucks fingers into the waistband of his shorts. Her fingers twitch, outstretched above her. And he’s weightless, and steady, and careful over her, but despite that, filth from his tongue punches her breath out like he’s sat directly over her lungs.

“Gonna suck my cock, baby.” 

It’s not really a question — not in tone. It’s a coo, a declaration, insight before Harry digs his fingers further past elastic and discards two layers of fabric with one tug, and his cock bobs free, glistening with a bead of precum at the head. 

Y/N swipes out over her lips with her tongue, and the sheen of spit over pink nearly matches the glimmer on the pink of his tip. The man cradles his free hand over his base and tucks the waistband lower on his hips, just until it rests under his balls and a glimpse of inked laurels and milky expanses of a bare tan line are on show. Bracing himself with a hand planted on the ground, Harry leans over her and aims his shaft, daubing over the plush of her mouth. When her tongue peeks out to swipe over the silky skin, she thinks he’s going to chastise her for her lack of patience. He doesn’t. Instead, he ogles down at the motion like she’s a goddess, cracks in otherwise apathy morphing; a light crease between his brows, a twitch in his lips. The same lips part for a shuddery breath like he’s trying to reign in his composure. And with every drag of his head over her slippery, hungry taste buds, a slow, side-to-side swipe that seems to lose precision with each motion, those cracks in his control give more. His jaw sets and he takes a long breath in through flared nostrils, and then shifts the palm that’d settled on the ground to rest over her wrists. 

“M’gonna fuck your mouth,” Harry tells her, pupils scoping carefully from her lips to her own eyes in finality. “What do you do if you want me to stop?” 

Y/N blinks. Her fingers twitch. She bends the digits over his grip and squeezes, flexing and unflexing over his own fingers like code in a tempo of frenzy. His gaze doesn’t even flicker from the aim of his tip, and he draws it over her mouth like he’s in awe of the sight.

“Good girl.” 

The young woman takes in a breath, mouth parting over his head slightly, all doe-eyed. He smushes his cockhead to the open seam.

“Open up for me,” the soft croon is accompanied by the tilt of his head, and a stray curl dangles over his forehead when he swipes the tip over her lips, “Nice and wide. Show me that pretty tongue.” 

And it slinks from her mouth as if on mindless command. Harry smears his tip over it like a filthy greeting, and then he feeds his fat cock in, guiding it up until the point to where he’s able to shift his weight onto the hand that doesn’t coat her wrists, careful not to cause the confined joints any discomfort.

“That’s it,” his praise seeps out all breathy, barely over an awed whisper as he sinks in and her tongue flexes to encompass the drag towards her gag reflex, “That’s a good girl.” 

The pointed little end grazes over his balls. 

“Eyes up here, pretty thing,” Harry encourages, ducking his own chin. There’s something pretty in the dance of her lash line, in the way her pupils flit up to his shadowy face, the way her lips tuck over her teeth to cushion his shaft. The way her tongue stays stuck out, flexing under the welcomed intrusion, “…Wanna watch them get all teary.” 

It’s like she tries to appease him. It’s as if on instinct to his words, that her lashes flutter as she tries to peer up, the beginnings of a ready sheen glazing the pretty color there as her tongue twitches and her throat bobs in an attempted swallow.  

And Christ, does it feel good when she does that. 

Harry’s own neck cranes, the muscles there flexing and veins swelling there like little ropes pulled taut under his skin. He groans, and it makes her do it again. His brows are furrowed when he risks a glance down at the picture-perfect view, and his hips nudge forward a smidge, only for him to bask in the sight of her irises lolling back and her lashes batting. A hiss lips through gritted teeth like rain through a gutter, and his head cocks further as he smooths an index to rest over her palm. She doesn’t have her digits balled — not all the way — not until his forefinger rests in her reach. She squeezes over that, almost like it’s an anchor. Something grounding to tether her. 

“Shit,” he manages out, barely over a whisper to bite back a throaty groan, hips rolling and brows furrowed in pleasure, “Shit — you’re good. You’re so good—“

And it makes the twitch of her lashes melt into a flitting bat, the color there rolling back and hiding behind the flutter. She can’t exactly hum in acknowledgment, but Y/N makes this garbled sound around him — this desperate kind she’d only make with his shaft stuffed down her throat, and it’s loud. Too loud. He squeezes over her wrists with his thumb, hips slowing until he’s wedged in to the hilt, stilled with the tip of her nose pressed to the light dusting of his pubic hair.

And Y/N thinks she’s going to implode. She’s going to implode if she doesn’t suffocate over his cock first. 

“Shh, shh,” Harry wriggles the index she’s gripping until her touch loosens enough, and he’s able to stroke the tip over her palm, “Shh.” 

Her pupils flit up to him in this deliciously delirious way for air. Harry tips his head down, the shadow of another curl flopping over his forehead. His cock twitches. Y/N makes another sound over him, this one lower. More pleading. More distressed. Her lashes flutter, cheeks puffing. Just when she’s about to clench and unclench over his fingers, he pulls out. It’s nearly all the way, but not quite, and she wheezes oxygen into her deprived lungs, muffling a fit of coughing. When she turns her head to take in more air, his tip slips out and draws a wet streak of saliva from the corner of her mouth across her cheek. 

“So pretty,” Harry murmurs. His tone sounds distant, and absentminded, and awed, like her mouth is divine and his voice is sort of full of worship, “You take me so well.”

Y/N blinks up at him, lips swollen post his ministrations and parted, slick with spit. Harry adjusts his grip, balancing his weight, and curls his lengthy digits over the base of his cock, aiming it back to that pretty, pretty mouth. 

Her jaw practically unhinges at the implication, tongue sticking out to daub at his cockhead when he croons, “And you’ll take a little more for me, sweetheart. Won’t you?” 

The sultry plush of his mouth curls up, all smug like when the tip of her tongue prods at his head, and then he feeds himself back into the warmth of her mouth. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips rolling slow and cautious as he guides himself in, “Yeah, you will.” 

He settles back into a pace of shallow, jutting thrusts, slow, and calculated, and testing. But then those melt and meld into something smoother, something deeper that brushes the back of her throat. Her fingers stretch wide and open and curl helplessly, never quite squeezing over his own digits, and Harry basks in the wet, pornographic sounds that envelop his shaft. Even as she tries to dim their volume, the sound of her sputtering around his cock isn’t something she can exactly mask when he brushes her gag reflex, again, and again. With every prod forward, every second she spends with her jaw wide open for him, that flame in her core kindles higher and higher. When he pulls out, jaw clenched and tummy flexing, ridges of his abs caught in the shadows, it’s like he pours kerosene. 

“Suck,” her friend tells her, soft-spoken as he nudges with his hips. His palm cradles his cock, fingers curled under the base. But her range of motion is limited, and Harry tips it up from her wanton, slick lips. Almost like it’s purposeful, because it definitely is.

A tentative tongue slips out to draw over his balls, and the way his front teeth lodge against the plush of his bottom lip, head cocked to indulge in the innocuous peer of her eyes beneath him — that’s a pretty sight she can make out even through the lack of light. She takes a million mental snapshots with her pupils, all of him in his all, curls dangling from the angle and the sharp line of his nose, his panting mouth as her tastebuds drag, sinew of muscle at his abdomen flexing, a rise and fall. The barest shape of the dark anchor etched into his wrist, his long, ring-clad fingers, the way they curl over his cock. The shape of it hovering over her face. 

A low groan squeezes past the door he’s made with his teeth, and then he says, “Yeah. There. Go on.” 

Her tongue morphs to her mouth, lips latching over lightly and sucking, just as he’d directed, and parting teases paste to him like doting kisses. Her lashline bounces as her eyes attempt to make his responses out through the rough angle and the dark that coats them. His head craned back there, his tummy rising and falling in pants there, his face tipped down over her to watch. The most insightful — and frankly, the most satisfying — are the sounds. 

The hisses of air he sucks in through his teeth, the way huffs fall out from between his open lips. They’re slow, and they come out like he’s trying to control them for the sake of the decibel, but they shake as they escape, and that’s a telltale. And then there’s the moans. 

There aren’t many of those to indulge in, but there’s a couple, one that Harry can’t seem to curb, despite his seemingly best efforts, when Y/N rolls her tongue over him all slow-like and comes off with a pop. And then another, later, that has him hanging his head when she stipples kisses to the sensitive skin there. 

“Christ, you’re gonna kill me.” 

The young woman hums, maybe in agreement or maybe goading, lashes batting innocently beneath him as she draws her lips over his sac aimlessly. 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and then he stifles and clams up like he’s contemplating. When her tongue drags over him again he seems to make a decision, tearing himself away and kneeing his way back until he’s hovering over her thighs, his cock bobbing and wet with spit, “Sit up. Take this off.” 

Do this, do that. A shudder climbs up the knobs of her spine, slithering its way up the bone as she basks in the dominating note plucking at his tone. The sweatshirt catches on her hair and tugs strands, but it’s frenzied, somehow fond, the way his hands rove up her sides and slip up her back, roaming over hot skin to toggle at the back of her bra.

Then it’s, “Roll over,” with the last of her clothing discarded into the darkness, somewhere beside them in the same, sloppy pile with her shorts and her underwear. “Gonna—“ she thinks he sheds his t-shirt then, imagines his muscles rippling and flexing as he pulls it off, over his head from the back, “—fuck you like I want your snug cunt wrapped around me forever.” 

And then go his shorts, judging by the way his weight dips and balances, the shuffling from behind as he kicks them off and they’re flung somewhere by his ankle. He presses up onto her, grappling her by the hip, all warm weight and everything brushing together. 

“You wanna bounce on my cock, baby?” Harry murmurs, pink lips grazing her temple. A curl tickles at her cheekbones when he ducks to skim his teeth over her earlobe, to ghost a breath of promise — of foreshadowing against her neck when he tells her, sultry low and smooth like honey, “Be a good girl and ask Daddy nicely. Maybe then I’ll let you.”  

Shit. Fucking Shit. That little word teems down her ears and hikes all the way down her nervous system and back up, lighting everything in her alive.  

Quietly, barely over a whisper, Y/N beckons, “Please.” And when Harry doesn’t immediately move, she licks out at her slips, swallows, and pleads, “Daddy. I need you. Need you inside.” 

In response, her friend cups a hand over a love handle and guides his cock to press against her. But he doesn’t breach. 

“Better, but not quite,” he sighs. There’s leaves rustling outside in the gentle breeze, but Y/N doesn’t hear anything besides the rush of blood in her ears when she begs more, and it doesn’t get any quieter when Harry rewards her by tucking himself inside and pumping forward, just about halfway. 

It’s a crying shame when he doesn’t make any motion to keep going. And then it’s quiet besides their panting breaths intermingling. Eventually, though, he does talk.

“Fuck yourself on it,” Harry instructs, cadence ludicrously controlled given that half of his cock is tucked into her. Y/N peers over her shoulder to catch glimpses of his furrowed brows — the rip in the stitch of semblance. She can only manage to see so much. He ducks his head and nips at the shell of her ear, coaxing tingles down her neck, her shoulders, all the way from her nape. “Go on. Don’t pretend to be shy about it.” 

Fucking fuck. How can she not be, she thinks, when he talks like that? 

There’s a heat that seeps over her the crest of her cheekbones where he can’t see, and she squeezes over him in response to the filth. Harry settles back up. From the corner of her eye, Y/N notes lines of muscle shaping his arms as he hovers over her. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she arches her hips up a tad and nudges back. It’s not enough — it’s maybe an inch, and she rocks forward by pressing her hips down and then repeats the motion. Just as there was a lack of control over her shame when he spewed dirty, brazen, filth, there’s also a lack of motion when she’s rolled forward with her tummy pressed to the ground. There’s only so much — so many inches she can ride back on when she’s rendered immobile. 

He knows it, too — it’s obvious by the poorly muffled note of mirth in his tone from behind, “Good girl. But you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

Helplessly, Y/N grits her teeth, fingers tangling into the fabric of her sleeping bag as she rolls her hips back in another attempt. It’s stuttery, and awkward, and not really a seamless, Shakira-esque roll at all. It’s a poor shuffle, hips raising more than traveling back. 

“Come on,” Harry goads, tutting like her tries are half-assed and she’s not currently exerting her body into creating motions that are simply unrealistic, “Take it proper. You want it? Then take it. Show me.” 

Camping is supposed to be wholesome. Camping is supposed to be laughter, and deep, pure breaths of air that scrub out the tainted glaze of city life from the walls of your lungs, sticky like cigarette smoke residue on the walls of a house. It’s hiking boots stuffed with the thickest socks. It’s marshmallows on twigs over curdling flames that lick up, it’s flashlights, and spooky myths and legends verbalized, and more laughter. 

Instead, Y/N is camping, and she’s currently barely grinding over inches of Harry’s cock. 

“I can’t,” she grits out, frustrated, but it sounds more like a whine than anything with bite.

“You can’t? Sure you can, pet,” Harry grapples over her hip, bracing on one arm in, honestly, an impressive showcase of athleticism, and manually rakes her hips back over him. It allows for more — more of him, more of his cock, more of his touch. More of him splitting her open and spreading her apart over him. “Just like this, right?” 

She’s sure he must be meeting her at least a quarter, if not halfway, though. It all feels like a devious ploy. Y/N whines. He makes this amused sound then, one of those puffs expelled through his nostrils like a half-laugh, accompanied by a hum. And then he pulls out and pumps his hips forward, until he’s flush to her backside, and then reverses and repeats. Three times. He gives her three, good, long, full thrusts, smoothing out to the tip and in to the root until she’s stuffed, just like he’d promised. Then, he presses in all the way and just basks in her heat. 

“Better?” Harry asks, but his tone catches on a quiet grunt and wavers in its prior composure. She squeezes over him, really squeezes, and he muffles a groan with the seal of his mouth. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all, and then the filth spills again. It’s odd how patronizing he can sound, despite the way her cunt so obviously affects him, “Need Daddy to do all the work, is that it?” 

Y/N hums. There isn’t much she can say to disagree because it’s good. At some point, his slow rolls morph into sharp juts, and the brace of his arms bends and gives until his chest is flush to her back. 

“Please, please, please, please,” Y/N croaks out the mantra, muzzled by the smush of her cheek to the ground with the pressure of his hand palming at the side of her skull. 

“Shh,” Harry rocks forward, fingertips twitching into her roots like a meld of petting and admonishment. He rocks into her until he’s flush against her backside, splitting her over him to the hilt, “Shh …don’t need to beg, sweetheart. You can have it. Have it all.”

He’s warm weight over her, hard muscle like hot, sticky stone as he works into her from behind. He’s a welcome stretch, a pleasant burn, inches of bliss that her spongy walls cling to in a warm hug. He’s tips of curls brushing over her cheeks, filthy words in a murmur flush to the shell of her ear, little, repressed grunts and shuddery exhales as his hips rock. He’s a headlock that squeezes over her throat deliciously and keeps her neck craned back. It’s in this perfect way that almost has her gasping for breath. 

The young woman practically bites into her tongue to curb a nearly animalistic groan that climbs from the depths of her chest and squeezes out past her detained windpipe. She doesn’t need to try as hard when his opposite arm shimmies up over the poorly-cushioned sleeping bag, when his hand clamps against her mouth, palm smushing over her lips. Instead, her high whimper catches on his skin and muffles out. Her nostrils flare over his digits when Harry shushes and chastises through grunts. 

“I know, baby. I know. Need you to be — shit — a good, quiet girl for me, though.”

Her irises nearly loll back into her skull, fluttery for the ceiling of fabric in their sockets at the dominating tone of his cadence. 

“Gonna be good for me? Make me—“ his words taper off when he muzzles a groan with the seal of his own lips, and what comes out is hushed, and masculine, and obviously bridled. But it doesn’t make her as hungry as when he beckons, “—Make me pleased with you?”

Because she wants to please him, wants to be good, wants his digits to press harder over her tongue when he slinks them into her mouth. It’s not her fault when the motion siphons a whimper. So Harry does — press harder that is, an inclination for her lips to wrap over his fingers, his chin tucked over her shoulder. His mouth presses to her temple, gracing her with puffs of air through his nose as he rocks into her.

“There we go,” Harry coos, soft and barely over a whisper when her mouth seals over the intrusive digits, “There’s a good girl. Let’s keep those pretty sounds to ourselves.” 

He rocks into her until she’s whining into his hand, until they’re really slick with sweat, and he’s grazing at his own peak, working until it unravels him from the inside out. She’s still making hushed sounds against his palm when he groans all low into her hair and his motions melt into something stuttery, when he empties ribbon after ribbon as she clenches over him and milks him through it.

He’s probably going to rifle through the dark for some discarded fragment of fabric to clean the mess. It’ll be haphazard on account of the night, and she’ll still feel the sticky remnants, dried up at the peaks of her inner thighs in the morning. But it won’t really be gross. Sort of a sordid, morning-after keepsake, sort of a dirty thrill as they pack their stuff among the others in their cohort. Sort of, probably, an excuse to fuck later in the day when they have a moment alone to themselves, reminiscing on the night before. 

But before that, he’ll probably clean his mess and run a hand down the vale of her side in a praising caress, like he normally does. Probably lay next to her for a bit before sneaking off to his own tent because, even though they’re just friends that fuck, he’s never been weird about cuddling — aftercare is sort of a must. He’ll probably say goodnight with another searing kiss, the kind that burns deep inside, because every time he leaves is kerosene actively poured into the pit of a bonfire. Because every time he leaves, she wants him more.

Tomorrow they’ll still be friends. 

Just friends that fuck.

[aplaceforyourhearttorest]

A to Z ⭒ Jason Newsted (18+)

Ask Anything you ask for, he's giving it to you. Not in the sense of him coming off as being submissive, but in the way where your pleasure easily and usually becomes his as well. He loves listening to the way your tone and voice becomes heady and heavy, the slurring and intertwining of your words enough to bring him close to the edge, as you mewl out for him and plead for him to slide his hand a few inches up higher on your bare thigh, or to stick his tongue in and curl it up just a little bit further inside of you. By the time you're already falling apart and unable to coherently say and attempt to verbalize another word, he's already drunk off the taste of you, and ready to have you continue to struggle to formulate even more on top of him, and then beneath him again.

Bondage He'd use anything from the classic pair of handcuffs, to the flimsy and nearly see-through fabric of your t-shirt, with the hem and haphazard stitching tickling the insides of your trembling wrists as he'd twist and turn you into the perfect, temporary position. Jason would dislike using anything too harsh like rope or nylon on you, due to him not being in favor of you having marks on your skin that don't originate from his teeth, lips, or curled fingertips edging and indenting themselves into your flesh. He'd use his belt if you asked him to, most likely in a setting that isn't your guys' home or during a quickie, with him behind you and keeping you steady, one fist enclosed over the used leather and the other one gripping your midsection, or cupped around the nape of your neck.

Cunnilingus As much as Jason loves to receive, he enjoys giving even more. He'd take his time with you, the teasing and playful side of his personality coming out as he'd make you writhe with pleasure, most likely only giving in and slowing down once you're trying to push him away or beginning to seize with oversensitivity. He'd make out with your pussy, his tongue hungrily pushing your lips apart after sucking hickeys into each one of them, your prerelease and essence making its way down to drip onto his chest as he holds you up over his head, with your clit pulsing on the bridge of his nose and your stuttered and shallowed breaths fighting to make their way out of your shaking chest. If he's receiving, he'd let you take reign, only thrusting forward and fucking himself into the heat of your mouth if you signal to him and allow him to. He'd be pliant and tense underneath you or standing near the end of the bed, the praises falling from his blood red and bitten lips giving you enough confidence and steadfast to swallow him down to the hilt. You'd instinctively and readily have your mouth wide open and tongue peeking out as he cums, his seed warmly cascading itself thickly down your cupids bow and chin like caramelized honey, with you licking it up like so.

Dirty Talk One of your favorite things is to hear him praise you, each time he does making you flutter around him. Whether it be his dick, his fingers, or his tongue, it gets to you every time. If he's sheathing himself into you for the first time that day or night, his voice is breathy and borderline tense, overwhelmed at the feeling of your vicelike grip around his length. If he's fingering you open and following his digits with an eager and abandoned flick of his tongue, his tone is calm and grounding, deepening as your moans begin to hitch and heighten in sound. If he's tongue deep in you and bearing you open with gripping fingers pushing your tremoring legs apart, he's just grunting, hungrily taking you and barely slowing down to allow you to properly breathe. If you're in turn going down on him, with your mouth trailing and traveling down to the light dusting of hair near his groin, you're filthily whispering how good he already tastes and how you can't wait to get him in your mouth. His answering dopey grin and high blush are telling enough, and so are his grunts and choked sounds of pleasure, once you finally take him in and suck him dry and for all he's worth.

Edging Edging only really happens if you both have time to take it slow or are fully alone together, which is a rarity, due to him mostly being on tour or at the studio with one, or the entirety of the rest of the band. But on the off occasion that you two are, all bets are off, and you two are spending the whole time together in bed, or anything you two can makeshift into one. You both wouldn't be fully satiated or content until you're each exhausted, and almost unable to move afterwards. He'd have you in every position from gripping onto the wood encasing his tour bus bed, to helplessly holding onto his forearm tightly wrapped around your collarbones, as your knees slide off of one of the cushions on a sofa in one of the empty rooms at their recording building. You'd be panting with tears in your eyes every time he'd purposefully slow down or evade your spongelike spot, his usual praises turning mildly degrading as you hungrily cant your hips back and try to grind yourself back onto the whole of his length. Jason wouldn't be too far from where you were once it's your turn to edge him, your earlier desperate expression turning into a mirthful one, as you cockwarm him and slow your riding to a halt every time his ballsack raises and tightens to graze itself against the bottom of your reddened asscheeks. By the end of the night and hours later, you're filled to the brim, and Jason's happily empty.

Foreplay It can be anything from a cuddling session turning into you two shuffling off each other's clothes in a frenzy, to you two purposefully and slowly turning each other on, with slick slides of tongues and appendages on every inch of skin in a mouth's reach. If you want to make it special, you'll wear something lace-like and silky under a normal outfit and surprise him with it once you two are alone, or give him a peek of what you're hiding if you begin to get impatient and are tired of waiting. If Jason's wanting you to himself and you're in public, he'll brush his bottom lip against your earlobe and casually murmur in your ear about how much he wants to take you apart, and remind you of the last time he had you debauched and filthy underneath him. He'd be rubbing slow and careful circles into the small slither of bare flesh above your denim bottoms, the callouses from his years of hard work adding on to and fueling the heat making its way and tethering itself in your middle. "Come on, sweetheart. I know how badly you miss being good for me," he'd grin at the slight jump in your next inhalation and at the unintentional pause in your conversation, the pads of his fingertips tracking their way down to tug onto your belt loops, the motion aiding in pressing your backside against his growing and pulsating bulge. "I want to hear how loud you can get for me again."

Groping He's always got a hand or an arm resting on or around you, whether it be on the small of your back, or on the top of your thigh, with his fingers spread wide and massaging comforting figure 8's into your skin. A straightened elbow resting upon your hip, while his palm goes lax on your lower stomach as he stands behind you and presses your back flush to his chest. If there's alcohol involved, or if he's uncharacteristically feeling bold, he's got a hand fully extended into a back pocket of your jeans, and he's kneading his fingertips into your asscheek, his beer long forgotten in his other. Seeing as to how shy he sometimes comes off as and out of respect for you, he only fully lets go once you two are away from others and onlookers. As soon as you two are alone, he's got you splayed and sat in his lap with your jeans unbuttoned, the hand he once had in your back pocket, now lowering itself past the thin material of your underwear and down to caress your sex. His other palm is sliding up to grasp onto your breast, before sliding your shirt and bra strap to the side and parting his lips for a taste. You've got a hand intertwined and engulfed in his curls, guiding him down and silently encouraging him to take whatever he wants and needs, while your other hand runs itself down the expanse of his back over the fabric of his top, still able to feel where your nails left indentations in his skin from not so long ago.

Hickeys Even though the two or you are in a proud and public relationship, any easy to see hickeys or love bites on either one or you could cause an uproar. Has caused an uproar, after you two made the mistake of covering each other with them in obvious purple and red, proud clusters and hues, before a music award show appearance. The comments and questions thrown around you two while at the public setting didn't bother you too much, but Jason felt overly protective of you afterwards, and got you to agree to no more marks above your guys' collarbones. It wasn't hard for you to get used to, since that one incident had you two getting more comfortable with sucking and biting marks into each other's chests and hips, and everywhere and anywhere beneath. Jason's favorite places to mark you at are your breasts and your groin, even though he often sucks them into your pubic bone and the inner, sensitive skin of your thighs. The public's reactions dwindled down after you two learned your lesson, but became the least of your worries after getting caught by the rest of the band after you and Jason tried to go for a swim in the guys' shared pool at their house, after a long night of edging and teasing, and of course, kissing and biting. The next time you planned to go over to theirs again, you brough a t-shirt, and an extra long pair of shorts with you.

Intercrural On the days where you felt too sore for penetrative sex, but still wanted to be active, you would initiate humping without clothing. The bare friction of Jason's swollen cockhead relentlessly making contact with your clit wasn't as stimulating as him being inches deep inside of you and fucking into you with reckless abandon, but it was still more than enough. Especially with your guys' foreheads nearly pressed up against each other, sharing open mouthed kisses, with your boyfriend's strong and steady hands guiding you up and down his throbbing and erect length. He'd swallow every single one of your stuttered moans of his name, and you'd lap at the taste of the nicknames he'd groan out at the same time you would tighten your calves around his thighs and roughly grind your bare sex down onto him. The sopping wet sound of his precum and your slick would reverberate around the bedroom and somehow complement the shared exhaled whimpers and curses, and you'd fully welcome the slight twinge of pain your body responded with as you carefully sat down on his length and buried him inside of you, right before you both simultaneously came.

Jealousy Jason rarely ever gets jealous, and neither do you. But when it does happen, it isn't a big thing. There isn't any yelling or arguing or name calling, just heavy silence, or the one that's feeling downtrodden and insecure closes in on themselves for a bit. For Jason, he's only ever gotten jealous once, and that was after seeing you interact with a longtime friend that came over once for a family dinner. Nothing happened in between you and that friend, but your boyfriend still felt like he would be a better fit for you or more easily accessible, since he doesn't have to travel as much as he does, and already got along with the people closest to you. You've gotten jealous yourself once or twice before, after seeing the way some fans would grab at him and attempt to jump on him after shows, and during meet and greets and signings. The way that some of them would flirt with him while you were standing near was off-putting and uncomfortable for you both, but also it made you wonder what would have happened if you weren't there. Luckily, whenever these issues and minor doubts occurred, you were both able to open about it soon after and talk it out. No matter what you two thought about yourselves and temporarily doubted due to insecurity, he would be the first person to make you feel better and reassure you, and you would do the same.

Kissing As soon as you woke up, there was a kiss being placed on your forehead. And then on your nose, and then on your mouth. Morning kisses were usually slow, unless one of you woke up heated or weren't able to finish each other off the night before. You two would kiss each other in greeting, even if one of you only went to the other room to grab something, and then came right back. The simple touch of lips ground you both, and is a simple declaration of the other still being there. If you two haven't seen each other due to conflicting schedules, your guys' kisses are much more passionate and long lasting. If Jason is headed out for a leg of a tour and you aren't able to come with, the whole night before and the morning leading up to his departure is filled with you two reminding each other of the way you two taste, and promising each other of what is yet to come. And sometimes, you two just make out for the hell out it. Panted breaths and slick strands of saliva still keeping you two connected, seconds after you two already part. Similar tasting tongues coaxing each other's mouths open and licking up to a roof of a mouth, audible sounds of kiss swollen lips reconnecting after a haste and rushed kiss. You two can barely keep away from each other, and you both wouldn't want it any other way.

Licking If he's got his mouth on you, his tongue is involved. Anything as simple as a brief neck kiss, his tongue is peeking out to wet his lips, and darting back out as soon as his pair make contact with your clavicle. If you've got something on the side of your mouth, he's brushing it away with his finger and then licking his thumb and sucking the residue away clean, his warm appendage wrapping itself around the fingertip to lap it up. If he's having his way with you and he's able to take his time, he's mapping the entirety of your body out with his tongue. He loves to lick along the inside of your breasts and down to your groin in a slow swipe, then lightly blow on your dampened skin and watch as you arch your back and as goosebumps awaken on your flesh. He loves to bite and suck marks down on your then sensitive skin, and place open mouthed kisses on the precipice of your pussy, until you come back to enough to spread your legs wide for him, fighting back a shiver at the look in his eyes, and at the cool air pillowing itself against your soaked sex. He'll continue to lap and flutter and strain his tongue against you after you orgasm, until you're squealing and he's already swallowed and eaten every single drop your body accumulated for him. And when he's back on his knees and towering over you, hard dick smearing prerelease on your jolting stomach, he feeds the taste right back to you.

Masturbation He doesn't find it necessary when he's around, because he's there and present to constantly please you. The only time he's down to touch himself or have a mutual session, is if he's on the road and you guys filmed something together for him to watch and look at while he's gone, or if he's touring and he's finally able to have some time on the phone with you. If he's home or in a nearby city where you're able to visit, he's nearly on you as soon as he sees you, unless he's on stage performing. He sees the fun and excitement in it, and he'd bring it up and offer it if you two ever have enough free time before edging, but it isn't something he'd jump for. He definitely prefers having his own hands on you, and being able to make you feel as good as he possibly can and knows he can. Knowing he's the reason as to why you're falling apart and he can control it, makes it a lot more fun and fulfilling for him.

Non-negotiable He's open minded and willing to try almost anything at least once, except for anything that puts you at risk of getting stuck in the wrong mindset and subspace. Which means no to full on degradation and hitting, as well as harsh deprivation and lack of verbal consent. He loves how adventurous you are and how well you match with him, but you feeling safe and protected is what matters the most to him, as well as your pleasure and making sure that you're well taken care of.

Orgasm One is never enough, and most of the time, you two are too into it to count up and tally the final ending number. Seeing each other climax is one of your favorite things to do together, at least sexually. Jason finds it a privilege to be able to watch you tense and shudder, sometimes to be able to feel you cum around him right before he spills his seed inside you. The way you nearly lift off the bed, the way your legs tighten around his broad shoulders, the way your nails dig in and cling onto his sweat laden skin, the way your mouth parts in a nearly perfect O shape every time, the way your eyes daze yet always stay on him, the way you smile when you come back to in his arms. If seeing you orgasm is a privilege, then seeing and feeling your boyfriend cum is a blessing. The way he grunts your name like a devotion against your bare skin, the way his hands tighten on you and secure you in his hold, the way he pistons himself into you, and then pulls you down fully onto him and presses kisses into your heated and flushed flesh. The way he looks fucked out and drunk afterwards, so satiated and satisfied and relaxed. The way his hair halos out underneath him, once he has you positioned on top of him, with your legs intertwined with his, and your head resting on his still heaving chest, uncaring of the mess you two lie in as you two try to ground yourselves again.

Positions He loves when you're on top, and not even in a selfish, you doing all of the work type of way. With you in cowgirl or reverse, he's able to guide you by the hips easier, and it brings more purpose to the mirror you two have a few feet away from your bed. He can also find his footing on the mattress easier underneath you, and bear himself up into you in deeper strokes than in missionary and doggy. With you having your hands near his head as leverage before you tire, he can bend you in half and be able to hit your g-spot, and be able to rub you against his groin at the same time, so you'll be double stimulated. He also loves the hot seat, which is when he has you sit on him on the edge of the bed, right in front of the mirror, and you both watch as he uses his hands and forearms behind himself to buck himself inside you, only slowing down or lowering you to lightly encircle his hand around your throat, or delicately fist the loose strands of hair from your face, so you can see clearer, and he can properly watch as you're pushed over the edge. He also loves the position of missionary, with your legs over his shoulders and your chests nearly touching, where he can bury himself into you over and over again, and then easily slide down to eat you out afterwards until you're unable to stop crying and shaking.

Quickie You both love quickies, especially after a good performance and after good news. There's always something exciting when it comes to them, and you both find a thrill in the action when you do it in the studio, or in a bathroom backstage at a venue. Although you two love privacy and being able to take your time, nothing beats having your boyfriend's jacket or hand in or covering your mouth as you try to stay quiet, as he takes you from behind or against a counter or sink, and you both struggle to contain yourselves. You from making a sound, and Jason from stopping himself from allowing you to drip all over the bathroom floor, from him to not getting on his knees and eating himself out of you after he finishes. The walk of shame is always fun afterwards as well, with the both of you sharing a secretive smile, and Jason sneaking an arm around your middle if you find it a bit hard to stabilize yourself for a while afterwards. It's always a fun thing to reminisce on, and to also reenact when you both get the opportunity to.

Roleplay Anything from a nurse to a clueless non-fan at an empty concert venue, is something you guys do for fun. Not only because it's exciting and something new to make things even more fun, but it's also funny as hell. Sometimes you'll both add in accents, or you'll take it seriously and end up having the best sex you've had in months. The great thing about being with someone who's as open as you are to new experiences, is that you're able to speak up about what you want to try and test out. It also means you've both spent an absurd amount of money on costumes. Your guys' favorite is strangers meeting up, where you two will pretend like you don't know each other, and then will eventually meet each other halfway, and have amazing sex that almost feels like the first time all over again, just like all those years ago. If you two want to just laugh shit off and have a good time, nurse and doctor, or maid is the way to go.

Sensitivity You're the most sensitive on your lower stomach and in between your thighs, and Jason takes advantage of knowing that fact. So much at times, that you become hesitant with him going down on you, because you already know he's going to make you weak and damn near oversensitive within a few minutes. By the time you're close to orgasming, you're covered in love bites and spit clad, kiss shaped marks, and your boyfriend is licking and sucking and making out with your pussy to the point where you're almost hyperventilating, and his fingertips are purposefully pressing themselves into the marks he's proudly left behind. Jason's most sensitive spots are right near the sides of his upper hips, and right above his groin. You don't tease him as much, but you're still as attentive as he is and make sure to please him in every way he wants and needs. Until he's shaking just like you were, and he's spilling down your throat with his head thrown back, his words slurred and unknown, with the only one coherent enough being your favorite nickname he calls you.

Threesome As open minded as Jason is when it comes to sex, he wouldn't be alright with just sharing you with another man or woman. He doesn't see you as someone or something he owns, but he's in a relationship with you for a reason, and he has a feeling that you would be opposed to him inviting another woman into the bedroom as well. If it were to ever come up or if you were to ask about bringing someone else in, it'd either be a no, or someone very close to him who he knows well. The first person that comes to mind, is Kirk. Kirk's been known to be sexually open and adventurous, and during his drunken ramblings, he's boasted about how good he is at giving oral sex. He also knows that Kirk is attracted to you as well, since it came up in a conversation a few months before you two officially got together. So, he most likely wouldn't be okay with it, but if he were to say yes if you ever asked, Kirk would most likely be the first person he'd say yes to, from his close circle.

Universal Every man loves a good sixty-nine, and your boyfriend is just that. Jason loves to go down on you on his own, but that's only because he likes to take his time, and he doesn't think he'd be able to do you good if you're sucking and swallowing him down as good as you normally do at the same time. But on the rare occasion that you two do sixty-nine, you both have a lot of fun. The mutual muffled moaning both adds to your guys' sensitivity and stimulation, there's a healthy balance of sensory deprivation, and the feeling of the weight of you on top of him is grounding. Plus, he loves it when you sit on his face. The last time you two tried it out, you nearly blacked out from his enthusiasm, and Jason almost gripped you too tightly by your sides after you took him all the way down your throat without even stopping. You both agree though, that tasting yourselves on each other's tongues and then moving on to doggy style soon after, did make the whole experience a lot more memorable.

Vibrator All the way, yes. If you guys are experimenting and trying out new positions and tricks, a vibrator is always used to make sure that you're still able to orgasm. Jason's also allowed you to use it on him once as well. You brought it up once during a conversation, and were surprised when he easily said yes. You placed it underneath his cockhead, right below and on top of the large protruding vein traveling itself down his shaft, and hungrily watched as he fell apart, all while occasionally lapping and licking at his tip for a bit more of added sensation. Watching his balls tighten, and then feeling them tighten up against your spit clad palm as you gently massaged them, had you soaking through your underwear and in awe. By the time Jason came back to and was calmed down enough to praise you and pick you up to place you under him to switch positions, you were already thinking about using it on him again. Luckily, you both had the same thought and idea.

Where Preferably at home, but like I said before, you guys are adventurous. Backrooms, empty bathrooms, studios after recording, the tour bus. Anywhere where you two could get a little bit of privacy, but also have a little bit of that fearful excitement of getting caught, when you're in the mood for that. But most of the time, at home. Where you two can be fully naked and tie each other up occasionally, use toys, be in more flexible positions than just gripping onto a used couch or sink, and take your time with each other. Make and take the time to break each other apart, and then bring each other back together. Multiple times in a row, usually.

X Factor This man loves every single thing about you, but his favorite thing has got to be, that you're where and who he feels the most at home and at peace with. With life constantly changing and the states changing with it, his only real stable thing in his life is his relationship with you. You always make time for him, reassure him, make sure he's feeling wanted and loved, and have treated the rest of his band members and family members like your own. You are his biggest blessing and gift in life, and he treasures the hell out of you. And there's never a single moment in time where he doesn't remind you of that, or treat you the exact same way.

Yes and No Yes to spanking, no to face hitting or smacking. He thinks it's too invasive and disrespectful to you. He's down for all of the biting and sucking and semi-public sex the world has to offer, but potentially bruising you on your face, or making you cry in a way that isn't pleasurable? Absolutely not. He'd rather have it happen to himself than to you.

Zip As cool and as fun as it is to have bathroom sex and sneak around every once in a while, this man wants to hear you. He also wants to eat, lick, suck, bite, be inside, cum inside, and cum outside of you and on you, but he also just wants to hear you having a good time. As much as you enjoy reassurance and knowing when your partner is being pleasured and having fun, so does he. So, let it out. He fucking loves when you're loud, and when you're praising him as much as he's praising you. That's what it's all about.

[omnitf]

Cliqued into Place: A Patreon Preview

This story is rated mature due to cursing. You can find the full story on my Patreon in the $5 tier. Credit for this image goes to @morphedcocks

------------------------------------------------

“How…? Why does it taste so good?” Once more, his voice cracked. This time, he didn’t clear his throat.

“Cause protein shakes’re sweet, bro.”

“Best whey to make sweet gains, bro. Huhuhuh.”

CLANK

Huhuhuh. Huhuhuh. Huhuhuh…. That same dull laugh seemed to come from everywhere.

It wasn’t funny. It was so stupid. Literally a Dad joke. And yet…. Why was his mouth twitching? Why did his jaw suddenly feel sore? Why was his chest all tingly?

“Fuck, bro. That was bad. That joke was bad—”

The creature rose from the depths like a great blue whale, its ascent slow and steady at first until it broached the surface. “And you should—” Then, unable to be held back, it bellowed like an effusive belch. “—feel bad.”

Was that … his voice? Or was it just a trick, some reverb or software in the helmet that kicked in after sampling his voice to make it sound lower in his ears? Maurice didn’t have long to think about it.

The one who made the joke smiled along with Maurice. And that smile kept on, even as he delivered his terrible counterblow. “Just for that, you’re doin’ leg lifts before we undo the rest, bro.”

Leg lifts? Really?

“That, or you can stay there and listen. We got time.”

“Listen to what—”

CLANK

“—BRO?” Maurice’s eyes widened, even as he shuddered. That … that had come out of him. But, … he didn’t mean to say it. Bro talk was for brutes like Tim and Bryce, not for—

CLANK

Not for—

CLANK

Not … for….

CLANK

…

Thump

The vibration carried up Maurice’s legs while the two big brutes looked on, their cocky smirks almost as broad as their backs and cannonball delts. Meaty veined arms folded over massive, nigh-identical chests. Their eyes were still a mystery, obscured by the visors of their own headgear, doubtless a mirror to what Maurice had so firmly placed on his own head.

He could almost hear the subtle creaking of a hinge, the tautness of a pulley as the subtle release of pressure from gravity granted a few precious seconds of agonizing buildup before the next

CLANK

Creak

CLANK

A wave of dizziness struck now. His head rolled like a buoy on an ocean swell.

Huhuh. Swell….

His breathing felt … funny, labored. And his shirt felt … tight. And kinda cold?

As the creaking built up again, he looked in an unreal sense of bemused detachment at the two throbbing masses of flesh that stood straight as a board. They looked so ridiculous, so pumped and loaded down with the sheer weight of corded mass rippling while his core burned.

CLANK

Thump

They were out of sight.

Creak

Strain. They were there again as he huffed and puffed, his mouth seemingly refusing to close, almost as if he had forgotten how….

CLANK

Thump

How to….

Creak

Pop! Pop! RIIIiiiiip!

Cold on his thighs. The pants on the funny legs were breaking, drooping to reveal the sculped flesh quivering beneath.

“Atta bro.” The twin voices rang in unison, and Maurice felt his head spin as his eyes rolled in a mix of dazed confusion and sheer, blazing ecstasy.

CLANK

Thump

Pop-Pop!

Ch-Ch-ChhhhrrrrriiIIIIIiip!

Smack-Smack!

Creak.

“UUUuuuuhhhhHhhhhh….” The groan warbled and thrummed with the steady, heavy beating of his heart hammering in his head. This time, the tatters were gone, replaced with a tight white sheath of nylon and spandex that hid nothing of the mesmerizing display of swollen pumped muscle rippling and coming to rest like the crash of waves on a shore. The tattered remnants of his now burst shoes sloughed off, leaving bulging feet and toes behind that strained against the confines of the socks that were barely holding on in the fight to keep the monsters contained. He could almost picture the state of their soles, creaking and straining, made dark by the repetitive impact against the old soles of the shoes that had once contained them.

“Fuck, bro,” Maruice heard one of them exclaim.

“Bro,” the second brute echoed.

Not bro. Something in Maurice shied away from that, cringing and whimpering. He didn’t want bro, but—

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck….” He could live with that. They’d said it so many times already, and he hadn’t been bothered by it. And … the situation did call for it, right? His head was feeling so messed up. And … he was all bound and shit, right? So he could totally curse himself out if he wanted to.

Nobody would judge him for it, right bro-ooohhhh no! He wouldn’t … fall into the brutes’ bro talk that easily. But … damn, that did feel good.

The burning in his core and thighs dulled and pulled away, retreating to concentrate in—

Creak

“Oh, Fuck,” the word drew out in another mighty expulsion. And in response, something began to swell.

CLANK

Thump

Creak

“Fuck.”

CLANK

Thump

Creak

“Fuck.”

[burningknucklecraftworks]

I discovered a wonderful Etsy shop called ChadMakes, where Chad Healey sells Healey's Hidden Hangers and EZ Sheaths - a series of 3D printed magnetic products designed for sword enthusiasts and HEMA practitioners. His EZ Sheaths are awesome but he sells them with nylon straps. Perfect for HEMA, not as good for SCA people who are really into the look of leather. I asked him if he'd sell me four without straps for my shire fencers and he readily agreed!

I was expecting to just keep ahold of these for three months or so but I needed a little, simple leatherworking project for mental health reasons, so I did a test build with one using some chrome tanned utility hide, copper rivets, and a couple of iron rings from Menards. So far so good!

The only sword it doesn't work with is my personal rapier because the balance is totally wack, but I have an idea to fix that with a simple hook hanging from a third belt loop for catching the pappenheimer holes. But every other sword holds really nicely.

I'm definitely gonna have to do some sparring practice with this to make sure that having a bigass magnet on my hip won't affect how shots land. I can already imagine the comedy of someone trying to hit my leg and just magneting the tip of their sword to me instead.

Go give the maker of the EZ Sheath some love if you like this little project. I'm really impressed with both his designs and his customer service. I also tried one of his Hidden Hanger wall mounts and it is super nice. Makes for an insanely clean sword mount. https://www.etsy.com/listing/1267690423/ez-sheath-deluxe-sword-suspension-system

[dozydawn]

(Left) MOULIN ROUGE - An authentic replica of a $200 original, this enthralling creation is unmistakably French and undeniably dynamic. See how the brilliant flower-splashed torso is artistically petal-edged just below the narrow shoulder straps and just above the trumpet flare of ruffled nylon sheer. In an expensive, supple, hand screen-printed rayon. Red only.

(Right) MIDNIGHT WITCHCRAFT! A fabulous nylon lace-over-taffeta sheath with a mad Spanish flare at the hemline. Excitingly molded through the midriff, it’s daringly dipped in back. White, red.

[flymeandtiememaam2]

ANA Prisoner POV 5

Perhaps on another occasion and in different circumstances, I would find the sight of the All Nippon Airways stewardess’ slim legs, sheathed in thin sheer grey/black nylon and the hemline of her grey uniform skirt tightly clinging to her thighs arousing as she sat opposite me, but not this time. Now I am her prisoner after she caught me stealing drinks miniatures from the galley; this time my hands have been bound behind my back by this young woman and she has strapped me tightly to my seat, despite the seatbelt sign being turned off; on this occasion all I can think of is the sheer humiliation and outrage I feel at being held this way by a female. There is nothing arousing about this captivity: just embarrassment and shame. I close my eyes and bow my head, shutting out this image of uniformed feminine authority from my sight.

Source: Pinterest

[gunzlotzofgunz]

Blackjack Effingham, Illinois Plastic Stealth Lapel Knife with Two Sheaths

This stealth lapel dagger was made by Blackjack Knives in Effingham IL. The knife was made just before Blackjack ceased operation in 1997. These stealth daggers were made in the style of World War II OSS spy daggers that could be concealed as a last ditch protective weapon. This is an original Blackjack knife from prior to 1997. The Blackjack production of these stealth lapel knives were never put on the market for sale, so to find them is highly unusual. This dagger comes with two sheaths so that a sheath can be sewn into two garments and the knife can be switched from garment to garment. (You can have one for dress and one for casual wear!) The 2 1/2 inch blade on the dagger has a double sided blade. The blade has a triangular profile. The black knife is made of glass filled nylon. The handle has a thumb recess with concentric grooves on one side for secure grasping. The blade has a grooved recess on one side so that it can be oriented with the open area on the sheath and snapped securely into the sheath. The clear plastic sheath has 14 thread holes to allow the sheath to be sewn onto the underside of a lapel or into a pocket for fast and easy access. The knife and sheath are undetectable with metal detector or x-ray. With the knife sheathed, the total length is 4 inches.

[monstergirlstink]

Which animal crossing characters have the best girl stink?

Ooh this is a fun one. I mean first and foremost I gotta give it up for my girl Izzy

She's definitely rocking a cute little furry sheathe under that dress and it gets so fucking humid in that little island office with nothing but a fan to cool her down? You know she's fuming under that desk and is way too busy to properly clean herself out down there. I want a full time position under her desk slurping the scum out of her sheathe and sucking the stink off her puppernuts. She’s got so much pent up stress and I wanna slurp all of it off of her at the end of a long work day.

Sable Able's in a similar situation where she’s working super hard and never leaving her little sewing table so her fat balls are just marinating in their own stink. She’s so busy she might not even notice you while you’re guzzling her girlstink but she’s polite enough to thank you after she busts a fat load down your gullet. Over and over again. Maybe if you do a good job she might let her sister get involved (both of them!)

Gracie gives me huge “Old Gay” energy, like she’s got that air of sophistication that comes with a long life of destabilizing the establishment with her world-changing fashion designs. That means that she’s seen it all and yet she still can’t help but laugh when she sees your eyes go wide at the sight and smell of her long lady schlong when she frees it from those musty nylons. Make no mistake, all the perfume in the world can’t hide her strong, mature girlstink that’s been aged to perfection. You’ll never forget the feeling when she finishes on your face and calls you a good girl.

BONUS ROUND: VILLAGERS

People have been coming around on Hazel lately and I’m GLAD. She’s a top tier design from her cute buck teeth to her beautiful blush stickers, and I have nothing but respect for a girl who can rock those WOW BROWS. Plus I mean it might be a little obvious but a spunky little squirrel like her deserves some PHAT NUTS that are just sopping wet and waiting for a cute face to drape over. That track suit means she’s out there SWEATIN, and once you’re done sucking the steam off her sack she’s got a pair of pits that need desperate attention.

Tangy has a fat pair of naranjas and fuck anyone who says otherwise. I bet she could cum for hours with those overripe fruits dangling between her legs, and no doubt she’s got a hot steamy stream of tangy juice for anyone depraved enough to kneel down and let her loose that golden sunshine all over their face. She lives up to her name with some tart and tangy girlsmell that gets your mouth watering every time. She’s the best part of waking up.

Some people might not like Truffles. Those people are idiots. This pudgy porker has a chubby chode to match the rest of her body and you can bet her spunk slinger doesn’t stop at one or two fat loads sprayed all over your face. Plus the most important thing is that she’s more than eager to reciprocate all your hungry sniffing. That fat snorfer of hers is made to suck down girlsmell and while you’re getting drunk on her sweaty pork perfume she’ll be doing the same, snorting herself till she’s spunking on your face from the smell alone. She’s a girl who both loves AND supplies girlstink.

[justyourlocalhermit]

Pocket dump, kinda

All the things on me at the end of the night

- Leatherman wave+ with nylon sheath

- BIC lighter, leatherman micra and space pen with extra keys in leather organizer

- High Life bottle cap

- Galaxy watch

- Chain with pendants

- Multi tool belt

- Double nip of Jack

- Ontario Rat I

- Spyderco Tenacious

- Kershaw S.P.E.W.

- Engraved Zippo with belt pouch

- Custom leather wallet

- Pack of Marlboro Southern Cuts

- Black bandana

[auburniivenus]

I was ten years old when you were born. (modern)

In   this   moment,   as   daybreak   unfurls   its   lustrous   embrace   across   the   cerulean   expanse,   there   exists   a   marina.   Here,   serpentine   paths   of   concrete,   aged   as   gracefully   as   a   vintage   from   an   esteemed   vineyard,   curve   alongside   the   gentle   murmurs   of   the   watercourse—a   portal   to   the   immeasurable,   enigmatic   sea’s   heart.   Piers,   resembling   the   outstretched   limbs   of   veteran   mariners,   plunge   into   the   tender   caresses   of   the   waters,   anchoring   an   assembly   of   vessels   with   nylon   strands   to   age-old   cleats.

Water,   an   eternal   artisan,   molds   the   immense   stones   at   its   border   into   timeless   monuments   to   nature’s   dogged   perseverance.   Guardians   of   wood,   sheathed   in   protective   rubber,   stand   watch   over   the   ceaseless   affections   of   the   waves,   while   barnacles,   the   ocean's   inconspicuous   craftsmen,   adorn   the   pylons   at   the   waterline,   manufacturing   a   narrative   rich   with   maritime   heritage.   Metallic   ladders,   reminiscent   of   liquid   silver   streams,   plunge   into   the   depths,   bordered   by   relics   of   sea   life—containers   concealing   the   ordinary,   hoses   and   spigots   poised   to   quench,   and   receptacles   holding   the   echoes   of   humanity’s   dialogue   with   the   deep.

Amid   this   domain,   tools   of   safety   and   prudence   lay   in   quiet   expectation,   encircled   by   the   implements   of   fishing   ventures,   whispering   of   the   unseen   giants   beneath   the   blue   veil.   The   atmosphere   trembles   with   the   pious   dance   of   individuals   clad   in   beachwear,   who,   in   an   ancient   ceremony   as   perpetual   as   the   sea   itself,   prepare   their   vessels   for   the   voyage   into   the   open   waters   or   nurture   them   with   the   tender   care   of   salt   and   wax.   Sun   forms   a   spectacle   of   light   upon   Adam's   ale,   transforming   the   mediocre   into   a   vision   of   awe-inspiring   aesthetic.

They   wander,   in   pursuit   of   solace.   Eyes   deep   with   the   richness   of   caramel   roam,   moving   in   accordance   with   his   presence—a   symphony   of   coexistence   amidst   the   myriad   expressions   of   dasein.   Couples,   families,   children—each   imbues   the   marina   with   vibrancy,   their   laughter   and   conversations   a   rhythm   of   the   human   condition.   Some   stride   past,   casting   glances   that   linger,   admiring   the   synergistic   bond   between   them.   A   petulant   smile   rests   upon   her   lips   as   she   heeds   his   words,   her   complexion   a   study   in   reflection.   The   sweet   resonance   of   his   voice   shifts   her   attention   from   the   terrain   to   his   gaze. “Does   that   bother   you?”   The   concept   of   age,   so   inconsequential   and   yet   so   pivotal   in   societal   judgment,   had   never   dimmed   her   spirit.   Yet,   she   wondered—perhaps   not   for   her,   but   what   of   him?   In   a   realm   often   swift   to   judge,   might   their   union   be   viewed   as   an   act   of   askance?   “I   don’t   really   care   about   what   others   think.   We   are   doing   nothing   wrong.”

@estarion - modern

[kultofathena]

Condor – Yoshimi Machete

The versatile and robust Yoshimi machete can be deftly wielded with both hands for greater striking power or with a single hand for tactical versatility. The thick-spined blade of well-tempered 1075 high carbon steel is purpose built for withstanding hard strikes and delivering powerful chops and hacks to brush and targets. It is made as durably as possible with a full tang construction featuring modern composite micarta grip scales which are riveted directly to the thick blade tang. Included with the sword is a Kydex and dense-weave nylon MOLLE compatible sheath that can be either strapped to your gear or rucksack or slung from a belt. Buttoned retaining straps complete this tactical machete.

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue November 15, 1955

On the left, Skirted swimsuit with a tank top collar. By Jantzen in nylon knitting (this is Princeton Knitting), On the right, elasticated swimsuit wool and nylon knitted in sheath; satin stripes. By Gantner. Kleinert swimming caps. Beauty note: Du Barry's Color Glide lipstick, in “Peppermint pink.”

À gauche, Gaine de bain à jupe avec un col débardeur. Par Jantzen en tricot de nylon (c'est Princeton Knitting), À droite, maillot de bain élastiqué laine et nylon tricotés en gaine; rayures satinées. Par Gantner. Bonnets de bain Kleinert. Note beauté : Le rouge à lèvres Color Glide de Du Barry, en "Rose menthe poivrée."

Photo Clifford Coffin voue archive

[jaws-and-canines]

They’re Laughing At Me

A Count The Days story. Set right after Scarring, Like an Artist. Following a week of sensory deprivation, Haskell finds himself weakened and overwhelmed, and at the hands of Officer Munroe. Contains alcohol, shoulder dislocation, beating including around the head, teeth gore, mentions of sensory deprivation.

---

Part of me wants to go back under. If it wasn’t for my mind eating at me, I’d welcome the silence. Everything is far, far too loud for me as Munroe lets himself into the room. I’m still where Iverson left me, bleeding through the trousers I put back on with numb fingers. Munroe squats down to get at my level, and laughs as I flinch. He takes his penlight from his key chain and turns it on, shining it in my face with a nasty laugh.

“Please don't do that,” I mumble, holding my hands up to shield the light. Munroe takes the penlight and flicks it over my face again. I hiss, shrinking back.

He laughs, stands up, and turns the overhead lights on. “Ouch!” I cry, my eyes starting to stream. “Turn them off!”

“Shut up,” he says, and kicks me in between my legs. 

I curl up, foetal on the floor. “Wasn’t it enough?” I say to him, from where I’m lying on the floor. “Wasn’t the… darkness enough?” I spit the word darkness with as much disgust as I can muster. A week of sensory deprivation, smothered by my own thoughts. My sluggish brain can’t put together a way to describe it yet.

“No,” he says. “Sit the fuck up.”

I press a palm to the floor, and try to sit up, a hand still on my thigh where the edge of the heel of his boot re-opened the cuts and I can feel fresh blood starting to well up again. I manage to get myself up to a sitting position with a grunt.

I’m weakened and I know it. This is going to be bad. This is going to be really bad, I realise. I put a hand to my face as I stand up slowly, and feel that my cheeks are damp. I’m already dazed, I’m already weak, and I’m already fucking tearful.

Much to my detriment, Munroe notices too.

"Stop crying," he yells. "Stop fucking crying! Crocodile tears," he yells in my face. I start to bawl. "You want something to cry about? I'll give you something!" he snarls. I find myself being thrown to his men like a sack of potatoes. In this state, active resistance is beyond me, I know that. No matter how much I try to go limp to passively resist them, they hold me up. A seemingly endless sea of black uniforms and blue shirts. There’s only three or four but I’m dizzy and dehydrated. They blur into one singular mass. 

Munroe pulls my hands back behind my head as I squirm uselessly, and knots them together with blue nylon rope. The position is already a little uncomfortable, pulling at old scars, but I know what comes next.

The rope gets thrown over one of the hooks on the ceiling and the other end is passed to Fives. Munroe stands in front of me, arms folded. "No, no, no," I plead with him, shaking my head. "You'll ruin my shoulders, please."

“I don’t care,” he says, and gestures to Fives. Fives plants his feet- and he pulls.

I’m pulled off my feet with a pained gasp that turns into a screech of pain. 

Fives takes a step back, and the nylon rope is tied off, quivering with my instinctual struggles to try to find purchase that’s just not there anymore, trying desperately to relieve the weight on my shoulders. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” I cry.

Munroe shrugs. "Cry about it, Haveter. Cry those salty crocodile tears.” He takes out his knife from where it’s sheathed next to his holster and bends down, grabbing me by the ankle. “The Major specifically asked me to do this to you. So don’t you think for a moment I’m the bad guy here. I’m not.”

He cuts me across the back of the heel, slipping his knife into the cut and pulling down. Tearing a small strip of skin on the sole of my foot off, leaving a red and raw ragged mess beneath. “Oh, God,” I moan, shaking. I try to kick him with my free leg, but the effort means tensing up my shoulders. There’s a sharp crack from my right shoulder and I daren’t push them further. “Please, no, no.”

The knife goes in again. This time he cuts a huge strip off, peeling it away like paring skin from an apple. Keeps on going until most of the bottom of my foot is a bloody mess. I screw up my face.

I cry out as he grabs for my other ankle to do the same to my other foot. I feel my blood drying sticky as I slip in and out of the moment, gasping quietly to myself.

He steps in front of me. “Look at it, yeah?” He holds the knife up in front of my face, slick with my own blood. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

I kick him in the stomach with as much strength as I can muster.

Munroe steps back, shock on his face, but my small victory comes at a huge price. As I swing back from the momentum, my shoulder quite unceremoniously pops out of its socket. I feel it go. Munroe responds to the kick with a vicious slap a moment after my shoulder slips out.

I just howl, screwing my face up, hot tears spilling down my cheeks, shuddering with my shoulder out of its socket. "Oh, God, please!" I howl at Munroe. "My shoulder, my shoulder, my shoulder!"

“What?” he asks, incredulously.

I can’t put two words together. I just scream, still swaying from the momentum of the kick.

He shrugs. “You did that to yourself.”

I wail and wail, coughing and spluttering, gasping in pain as my shoulder burns. It fucking burns. He just wipes his knife on my shirt and puts it away. “Cut him down, Fives, come on,” he mutters.

Fives steps over, unsheathes his knife, and simply cuts a single loop of rope. My hands come apart, and I fall to the floor with a thud and another wail of pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, tell Jack I’m sorry,” I sob, seeing Munroe draw his baton. I try to crawl away from him, on my hands and knees. Every little movement hurts something, either my shoulder, which I feel clicking around, or my feet, which sting like all hell. “Please…” I mumble. “Please, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t listen. I go further back. “Tell Jacob I’m sorry,” I sob. “Tell him I didn’t mean it.”

“He’s fucking dead,” says Munroe, right before he brings the baton down across my fingers. And then they all descend. Fives and the other two, batons in hand, all at once. 

The first hit glances into my head. Then the second. “No, no! You’re going to kill me!” I scream, but it’s not like any of the officers are listening. They’re going for the jaw, because of course they are. From the left, a smack with a baton. Something shatters in my mouth and I spit blood down my front. I retch, and spit out another load of blood along with the tip of one of my teeth. The shard of enamel is bitter and hard.

From the right this time. He goes for the ribs, a kick with hobnailed boots. It slams me into the wall, and he follows up with a kick between my shoulders. I gasp as the nerves in my back seize. I can’t breathe, I realise, staring in fear at the scuffed-up wall. He kicks me again in the back, again, again. 

Munroe plants his foot on my head. I cry out as the treads of his boot scrape my bruised cheek. “Please!” I sob. “Stop!” 

“Shut up,” he says, and swings a kick into my stomach. I curl up into a ball, sobbing, gasping, curled around the bitter ache in my chest. Like a child, sprawled on the tarmac of the playground. I start coughing again. 

I roll back onto my back, coughing and spluttering as my lungs fight against me. I turn onto my side and start hacking up the blood I’ve inhaled. More shards of enamel fall out of my mouth. Fuck, they’ve broken one of my teeth. They’re going to fucking kill me. They’re going to kill me.

Oh, God, they’re going to kill me.

Munroe kicks me in the face. “This is what you fucking get, Haskell!” 

I howl. The words just aren’t there. He does it again. My whole jaw shifts. Again, one last time.

“Woah, woah!” says Fives, and drags Munroe off me. I’m spared. I catch my breath with a gasp, rolling away to the other side of the concrete room and trying to get up. My mouth is full of blood. It’s literally dribbling down my chin.

This time when I start retching, crawling around on my hands and knees, it’s not just enamel and blood I bring up. It’s teeth. Into the palm of my hand.

Teeth. 

I stare at them in my hand. Teeth. Multiple.

Someone swings another baton hit at me. I slam backwards into the doorframe, cracking my head on the metal, but I don’t react. Dead weight, I slump down to the floor, staring into space.

Teeth.

They knocked out my fucking teeth.

Munroe grabs me by the back of the shirt. “You need to learn some goddamn humility,” he hisses. It continues. And now they avoid my head. Now they avoid it. 

A kick to my back, a baton to my hip. I just lie there, on my side, staring at the mess on the floor. My teeth. Every single jolt makes me inhale, with the horrendous realisation that part of my mouth is a mess of emptiness, torn flesh and broken enamel.

By the time Munroe orders his men to stop, I’m crying. Silently. Just lying there, on my side, tears rolling down my face. Not a sound.

He grabs me by the jaw. It hurts so much I just sob and I can’t pull away. “Did that hurt? Did that hurt?”

I nod, slowly, whimpering as he presses his fingers against my jaw.

“I bet you’re fucking hungry and thirsty and tired as well. I’m not fucking done with you.”

“Please,” I croak. “You’re going to kill me.” The words come out messy, blood pooling in my mouth from the missing teeth.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks. It’s not a nice question, not really.

I look at him, dazed.

“Do you fucking want something to drink?” he snarls, gripping my jaw even tighter. I nod, eyes wide.

“Hold him,” says Munroe. “Down on the floor.” I’m already on the floor. They take an arm each. 

Munroe kneels on my legs, sitting astride me, fumbling with a bottle. It occurs to me a moment too late, as the smell of alcohol hits me, that he didn’t mean water. “Before you start-” he begins.

“Hey- hey- no-” I slur, spitting blood down my chin as I try to get the words out past missing teeth. “No!”  

But he advances anyways. “Before you start, this wasn’t my idea either,” he says, and with a hand on the back of my head, forces the lip of the bottle into my mouth, and tips the bottle. “So you can thank Iverson for this.”

The alcohol burns. The glass bottle comes away from my lips, and Munroe just presses a hand over my mouth and pinches my nose. I can feel it ripping away at the gaping mess they left when they knocked out my teeth. 

I scream, arching my back, twisting one way and the other, trying to spit it out. But the hand on my mouth is firm, and I choke it down before I run out of air. Only then does he let me breathe. 

Only for a moment. I see it coming. “No, no-” The bottle meets my lips again. I try to fight it, slamming my head against the floor in the process, but the alcohol swills into my mouth. Again, the hand, and I scream and I cry through Munroe’s palm as the alcohol sears my fucking mouth raw until I manage to swallow it.  

“Please, not again,” I croak as the hand comes away from my mouth. “Please. I’ll drown.”

“Not a bad way to go,” says Munroe.

The bottle meets my lips once again. I try to go with it this time, drinking as much as I can, swallowing it even as it burns and I can feel my stomach roll with nausea, tears streaming down bruised and grazed cheeks.

The alcohol smothers me like the darkness’ unkind sister. I find myself under their knives once again. I don’t really have the wherewithal to put together what’s going on- passed from one set of hands to another, from one cruel-edged knife to another, as I stumble around in my afraid stupor, trying to stay on my feet. 

I stare at my own blood on my hands, on my feet, my bloody footprints across the floor. My teeth are on the floor. And then it’s onto the next pair of hands, who takes it upon himself to pull off my clothes and inspect my back. Perhaps he re-opens old wounds, or he makes his own new ones. I don’t know. I don’t remember.

The same happens with my trousers. I flail around on the floor as they try to pin me down to look at my thighs, bruised and bleeding from a fresh whipping. I wail and cry for someone to come and save me.

Nobody will. They’re laughing at me.

Out comes the saltwater. I knew I was never going to get away without it. 

Munroe takes a particularly unkind view to me at this point, soaking a rough rag in it, and scouring my back down with it. Then my front, then my neck and face, all the while as I writhe and make incoherent pleas for him to leave me alone, my mouth full of blood and inflammation, and me, drunk out of my mind on whatever coarse alcohol they poured down my throat. And then, the final act of cruelty. I find myself staring at my own reflection- such that it barely is, I don’t recognise him- in a bowl of saltwater so thickly brined there’s a skin on top of salt.

And then I’m plunged under. Held down with a hand on the back of my head. I choke on it, because of course I do, too drunk to understand not to breathe in. They bring me back up to kneeling with saltwater streaming from my nose and mouth, tinged with blood, reddened eyes, and coughing so hard I can barely breathe. It stings. My eyes stream, my mouth bleeds, but all I can do is just lie there. 

No way out, no way to get away, I just shut down, retreating deep into myself, exhausted and in pain.  Munroe squats down to look me in the black eyes. “The fuck are you mumbling about?” “I... I want...” I struggle to put two words together. “I want ‘t go home... I want... I want my mother,” I sniffle. “But... she doesn’t want me!” 

Munroe laughs in my face as I bawl weakly into the concrete.

They discard me on the floor after that. They leave, and they’re laughing still.

They’re laughing.

[reveromantique]

@grieverled | the monstrous & the divine.

He doesn't know how long he's been here.

Feathers scrape like knives along the marble floor, horns curl obsidian from a tired brow. He hears her laughter, everywhere, maniacal-mad, but she is unseen, a phantom of a witch that's supposed to be dead.

His fingers end in ink-dark claws even as he watches, suntanned hands outstretched in the shadows, and drawn back as a beast's.

He doesn't know how long he's been here.

--

two weeks earlier.

First, he is dead-asleep, curled around Squall out of necessity in the narrow bed, the cool air of Balamb's so-called winter flowing in as a breeze through the open window a comfort and a relief.

First, he is asleep, and abruptly, Seifer isn't, jolted awake by... something. A voice? A dream?

More than likely, some fucking nightmare he won't remember, even though it's likely a replay of something he knows he's done.

His eyes snap open, fixing on the shadows in the dark room, beyond the familiar hump of Squall's shoulder.

It's just a dream, there's nothing there, go back to sleep.

But Seifer's never listened to the little nagging voice before, and a lifetime of well-earned practical paranoia means he's certainly not going to start now. He surrenders his half of the blanket to his fiance, and eases over him, out of bed without trying to wake him.

It's an equally-practiced maneuver; bare feet hit the coarse carpet, and Seifer lets his eyes adjust to the dark for a second before he moves toward the door and out of the room.

It's Garden. No one's gonna break into the commander's quarters.

But if there's nothing, he'll go back to bed. If there's something, Seifer intends to get the drop on it first.

His tread is muffled by the carpet, and the only noise he makes is the sound of metal against nylon, as he is scooping up the tactical knife from its sheath (that is still attached to the belt of Squall's pants, tossed in a lump over the desk chair.)

He's a weapon on his own, but the knife helps.

Seifer wraps his fingers around the slightly-textured hilt, and follows the shadows into the main room.

Hello, mongrel.

Her voice hits his ear like a gunshot. Seifer jolts, whirls, slams into the table and sends one of the chairs clattering onto its side. There's only darkness, and the faint moonlight.

He fumbles along the wall, until his hand hits the switch, bathing the whole place in sudden, fluorescent brightness.

All shadows are chased away. There is nothing in the room with him.

He swears, overloud, running his knifeless hand over his face.

There's nothing, there's no one. He's hallucinating again.

Go back to bed, Almasy.

He turns off the light, and with the dark, comes her claws at his throat, and her vile grinning white teeth.

He doesn't even have time to scream, nerveless hand dropping the knife against his will, hearing it hit the floor, and it's all he leaves behind as she rips him out of the room, and back into her castle, laughing all the while.

[kimmyamber]

To love my female legs sheathed in nylon...

[sandraclapham]

Recently-waxed legs sheathed in Gio RHT nylons