#pocwriters

[dopelovered]

cw blowjob, degrading..? but he’s saying it in a praising way i accidentally deleted this a couple of days and finally got around to reuploading

“you’re so nasty.” carmen murmurs, watching with blown pupils as you suck him off sloppy like you both like it.

lips slick and shiny, you kiss his tip and down his shaft, flashing your eyes up to his as you lick pretty over his balls, mouth open and tongue out, humming exaggeratedly with each glide of your tongue, your hand wrapped around his cock.

he’s in fucking awe, big tatted hands moving your curls out of your face and cupping the side of your face as you lick up the underside of his cock, letting your nose and tongue trace the veins there.

“sshittt,” he groans with gritted teeth and he throws his head back onto the wall behind him, but he couldn’t stop watching you even if he wanted, so he’s focusing his pretty blue eyes on the way you place another kiss on his tip.

and then, you take him all the way in, and it feels so good he almost loses it.

“fuckin unreal.” he whispers, and his hips jerk just a little, send his tip hitting the back of your throat.

and fucking god, you’re chasing that shit.

titling forward, you’re trying to keep him deep, keep him down your throat

he clocks it as soon as you do it, and— “you want that? want my fuckin’ dick back there?” and you do, so you’re taking him as far as you can, and he’s. . he’s gone. “you’re fuckin’— fuckin’ nasty. so- fuck.”

you feel nasty, but it feels good, feels so good to be seen like this by carmen.

he fucks into your mouth again, on purpose this time, and the determination, the glint, the arousal in your eyes has his feelings flowing out through his mouth. “want you to fuckin’ choke on it, can feel the back of your thro- fuck.”

again he pushes himself into your throat and you gag and moan around his cock, clawing at his stomach and the pretty curly hairs that frame his dick.

he shakes his head in disbelief, in reverence, cause what the fuck. chuckling almost incredulously. “no fuckin’ way,” slips from his mouth, and he watches tears well up and slide down your face, so fucking turned on and keyed up from watching you slut yourself out for his dick.

he finds a pace and you nod around him, letting the sound of his tip hitting the back of your throat ring out through the room. it’s fucking disgusting, the way spit drips down your chin, the way your glazed eyes are focused on his face, on his pretty fucking face, the way he’s unraveling at the feel of his dick hitting the back of your throat, at the sight of you on your knees sucking him off messy.

“so pretty,” he groans, big blues fixed on your eyes, big hands in your hair and on your face, “fuckin’ shit.”

[mcondance]

carmy’s arms have been literally plaguing me

he’s not too big and definitely not too little— just strong and built and firm and fuck

his arm wraps nice around your neck, your body pushed into the bed while he pumps into your sticky pussy, wet and messy and stretched.

air seems like something you’d forgo to be like this all day, caged under him with his big arm around your neck, the swell of his muscle tucked pretty around you, just tight enough to make your head swim, his other holding him up.

even still, carmen can't just take what he wants, so he's trailing his kisses from your neck and up your jaw, gracing your ear with his soft question, "you okay?", still rocking his hips against your ass.

"f-fuck," you gasp out, head still spinning and now even hazier cause of the tone of his voice, his breathy little slurred words.

"m okay, s-shitfuck, jus' keep f-doin' that."

carmy knows he can push your limits, so he squeezes his arm around your neck just a little tighter and he gets what he wanted— another gasp from your mouth and you clench so pretty around him, and he feels you wet him up even more, gushing out around his thick cock that has you feeling nice and full.

"mmhm, love it when you do that, get all tight around me, fuckin' heaven"

"gonna make me- make me fucking cum."

"so fuckin' desperate, gonna cum just from this." he's not even trying to say what he's saying, not trying to degrade you, and the knowledge of his overwhelming admiration of your pleasure, the way he feels so fucked and used by this simple thing, and the feel of his arm getting tighter and tighter and fucking tighter has you slapping and gripping his arm as your climax hits you like a fucking truck, sensitive walls clenching so nice around carmen while he lets go so you suck in air, air that tastes so much fucking sweeter when it's been taken from you.

"fuckin god, cummin' so fuckin' hard f'me, can fuckin' feel that shit, perfect fuckin' pussy."

you cum without his hand on your clit, just the soft pressure from your body pressed into the mattress, the way you can still feel his arm ghosting against your neck while he keeps fucking you deep, prolonging your orgasm and chasing his.

"s-shit, you're tryna fuckin' milk me, pussy's so perfect, fuck." his last word slips into a depraved growl, desperate and broken. he tucks his head into your neck, his balancing hand gripping the messy sheets tight and his arm pressing softly around your neck again.

"god." he huffs out a moan, relaxing more onto you with one last rock, almost giggling at the sound of your blissed out moans and small gasps for air.

[streetrunnazvol40]

the impact of Little Caesar's Pizza on Black Households (excerpt)

Chance the Rapper’s smash hit “No Problems” echoes off of the narrow bathroom's walls into the open hallways and living room. Occasionally, you'd hear the collisions of spray bottles dropping to the floor, passive aggressive stage whispering, and the oohs and awes that accompanied the last-minute revisions to outfits.  Empty store-brand 2-liters and a partially filled pizza box cluttered the table in the living room. The table served many purposes, like also servign as a rotating display of a hastily assembled outfit. 

Just outside the range of the small, muddy cellphone speaker dominated by a Chicago native, plays a completely different arrangement of the same sounds, as the living room television is blaring Kanye West's Mercy. The two sounds battle it out until my mother’s voice cuts through the auditory battlefield, demanding that one of the sounds stop. Then she said something about not being in the mood. After a few seconds of waiting to see who would hesitate, my siblings turn their music off. 

(Sidenote, as an adult who works a stressful job 40 hours a week-- I totally get it mom)

My sister raps a verse from No Problems at the same time that she grabs a slice of pizza. She’s interrupted as her best friend cuts her off and laughs heartily pointing out how the slice of pizza she got was shaped weird. For what it’s worth, the pizza was in fact, somehow cut into a rhombus instead of the triangle we’d all grown to respect.

Ignoring him, she took a bite of the pizza and she washed it down with her golden Four Loco. After this she waits a moment, gathers her thoughts while she stares blankly at the table. Suddenly, she sadly expressed her distaste for the cheap pizza in her deep country accent a sentence so accurate it still strikes truth to this day:

“Little Ceasars be good fa’ 5 minutes then it get hard.” 

[missvmisery]

I realized something

Under the beautiful sky

With the moon shining down on my skin

I am enough

Like the moon always changing

But will always come back to my roots

I realized I am enough for myself

That I don't need someone to complete me

Instead

I want us to be so bright

That we can burn cities to the ground just by laying our fingertips on each other

-The Moon Is Bright Like The Touch Of Our Skin

[quillrosetellsstories]

Get to Know the Author <3

Hello!

After a few posts and sharing a few pieces, I thought I'd do a quick introduction. My pen name is quill rose, I use she/her, and I'm 23. My sign is cancer (capricorn moon, scorpio rising), I'm an INFJ, and a writer! My personal identities tie into my writing. My current project is a fantasy series depicting poc and lgbtq characters. In writing, my strengths are dialogue and worldbuilding. I find the most joy in the telling of stories.

Quick favorites:

        Movie: Lego Batman

        Book: Percy Jackson (I'm counting the series)

        Music: AJR and Billy Joel

        Author: Yaa Gyasi 

        Poet: Audre Lorde

        Food: Popcorn

        Color: Purple

        Video Game: Mass Effect (Trilogy)

A few more interests I have aaare: reading, illustration, fashion, cosplaying, jewelry making, journaling, self-care, dancing, and my two cats; Ahsoka and Rex.

Continuing to write from here,

quill rose

[caocao-caokie-blog]

Okay, so I had a big think right now at 11:51 and I have classes tomorrow, but. I need to say something

P.S. The Topic I am touching upon is body dysmorphia to an individual in Isekai, especially one that is a person of color, specifically POC in America. If that is not something you would like to read and/or Triggering to any feelings you may have, skip this post. I have told you the basic premise of my ideas.

Now, I need to talk about what I was thinking.

I am a big Isekai/Transmigration/Reincarnation trope lover. Stories like SVSSS and stories from baffilinghaze on AO3 are what I dearly love ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

Also, I wanted to explore the ideas of POC and how they would specifically navigate a new world. While yes, anyone and everyone would be confused and scared too, I want to see specifically the horror part of it.

The melancholy.

The loss.

The feeling of losing your culture, your family, friends, everything you had created or built or achieved.

This could go for anyone, really, since there is a true horror in losing your body and possessing a new one in certain isekai’s, but for minorities, I see it differently.

I am a Filipino male, in college, and somewhat okay, so I can not nor will I not talk about the experiences of other minorities. I will you myself instead as an example of my idea.

So I was dropped into the body of a light skinned prince who was known to have been quite the player and/or the jerk.

And yes, while this might be a bit of me venting, I want to make use of the useless villain turned good trope a little.

At first, I would be scared, curious, and nervous. I’m in a new world with no idea of a ‘standard’ nor do I know my social standing yet.

Then, I would act to try and strive to have a more positive outlook, or to at least make minor changes in some way. Even changing the way the useless prince acted before is an action.

And then.

And then.

When I’m alone, sitting near a fire, or maybe even when I am standing in a ballroom, or even in a hallway, I’ll think.

Think of what I lost. Think of my family, my friends, my home.

I will think back to my past body, think back to the wavy long hair I had, the tan on my arm and legs; the tan lines I have that severely change in skin tone, but make me unique. I’ll look at this body, unnerved at the revelation that I am someone else now. I am, in a way, privileged. In a way, even if I was born poor, even then, I don’t look like me.

I would probably think I look conventionally attractive or beautiful, and loath and cry about how I wish to look like myself again, even for a brief moment. I would lament the promiscuity of the prince too, and the garnered hatred from whoever. I am one, slightly repulsed from physical contact, and two, a people pleaser.

The fact the prince had violated two of my boundaries are not his fault, but it is more telling that I am not him.

At last, I would live in twain. I could share bits and pieces of myself to others, try to recreate ideas of the world now, but I could never get back the understanding of my culture, the people, the places, myself.

Now, this topic got heavy, but their are some other ways to go about this.

First off, I would like to have a character who thinks about home more often.

Oftentimes, most Isekai protags try and forget their past, that, or while they remember it, they usually live bland, uneventful, or traumatizing lives. I would love to see more people who thrived in one setting struggle in another.

Another way is to have this person try to talk of their past world. Stories and history is what I know best, so much so, I’m trying to reach for a degree for it. But they are things that are meant to be shared, and I can’t help but want to have people understand or here my thoughts and stories I have.

Lastly, if the person has a certain craft or talent specific to their culture, then they can have fun by doing something to remind them of home.

In bafflinghaze’s story These Side Characters Have More Important Things To Do, the character Ren Xiyang(I believe it is spelled like this but I might be wrong) shares dishes of his old world. He also bring along changes to his fief to improve it for the better.

Utilizing these ways of writing or more, or even sticking with my original thought, Isekai is a fun way to experience a new world through the eyes of someone just as clueless as us. I wish to see myself represented as the lead one day, but I hold my breath smile, having a sinking, knowing feeling it might never happen.

Sorry for the downer ending, but I really hope I give people an Idea about Isekai, and hour to utilize them as a way to talk about the inherent horror of body swaps and up other such things. I wish I could have been more eloquent in my wording or explanations, but I hope I got my point across!

Bye! See you soon! And stay curiously safe!

[sero-pairo]

𝙌𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮|| 𝙀. 𝙆𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙖

by BUBBZ_NOODLES

ೃ⁀➷ 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝, 𝙄 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮

Words: 5281, Chapters: 8/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M

Characters: Kirishima Eijirou, Original Female Character(s), Reader, Bakugou Katsuki, Ashido Mina, Sero Hanta

Relationships: Kirishima Eijirou/Reader, Bakugou Katsuki/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character(s)/Original Female Character(s), Ashido Mina/Sero Hanta

Additional Tags: Anime, bnha - Freeform, bwam, pocreader, pocwriter, Quarantine, Pregnancy, but like in the past tense, Reader is black

from AO3 works tagged 'Ashido Mina/Sero Hanta' https://ift.tt/DzZR7U4 via https://ift.tt/MKiE03I

[neptunalea]

poetic prose novella | 8k words into first draft | tw: suicide drug use

> NOCTURNALIA is the story of V--., a young woman with no past and no one to turn to. Her boyfriend Corey just drove into a lamppost and they don’t know if it was suicide or just an accident. But he’s back from the dead, haunting her, trying to get her to die with him. 

Just as she’s about to pull the plug on life, her guardian angel, Alua, arrives on the scene. Alua is determined to keep V--. alive by showing her the drug-addled underbelly of the City of Collioppius. Surely partying hard enough will show Alua that life is worth living, even without her undead harp-playing boyfriend. 

She sleeps all day and stays up all night. She is a part-time go-go dancer. Join V--. as she drops acid, fucks capital-g God, and sprints down the line between life and death at top speed. 

> Part One:

I.

I am the anti-fae of the power plants. I eat iron and lurk under street lights like a bad smell. I wear black, white and gold. I flicker in and out of parties, alt-dimensions where time doesn’t go straight. I dig out raves and basement shows. I slide through those chaotic spheres like a shadow, pressing my lips to the forehead of anyone who buys me a gram. Sometimes I’m a go-go dancer, half-specter, half-naked. When you see me in my panties and virgin skin, it’s only for a second. Then I disappear into the crowd.

 II.

I’ve been anti-fae for six weeks now, but nighttime still holds novelty. I’ve been using it to indulge my deepest sadnesses; each one is a mass of velvety despair in my gut. Gunmetal-heavy, they anchor me to the world. My eyes are forgetting the sting of sunlight, my mind the concrete-eating anxiety of interacting with baristas and bank tellers.

To be seen by people is my great anxiety.

This is one of the main reasons I took so well to nighttime. At three in the morning, no one asks if I’d heard any good music lately, or if I’m planning to go to the grocery store that afternoon. I can hold my marbles of sadness inside me and treasure them like a dragon on a mountain of gold.

I’m in Corey’s apartment on the living room couch. The lights are off. Through the window, I watch the dark parts of the vacant lot across the street. (Maybe something inside them watches me, too.) It’s filled with debris; the City has summoned me here with nothing but a tire iron and a fire pit. The way someone might put words in the mouth of God, I imagine what this place might tell me if it could speak. I will find you in the dark. I will pick you out like a bug in my hair. I will find you nocturnal. 

tagging nobody bc nobody is on this taglist, lemme know if you wanna be on it <3 

[kitchentablelit]

For #GivingTuesdayNow we're raising funds to offer FREE online classes for Black women and women of color writers and poets. . . . Please give what you can. Link in bio! . . . #creativewriting #onlineclasses #wewritehere #blackwomenpoets #blackwomenwriters #pocwriters #WOCWriters #writingcommunity #writersofinstagram #kitchentablelit #givingtuesday #givingtuesdaynow2020 https://www.instagram.com/p/B_z9kwJA1xF/?igshid=14qr8e134zhwi

[djmunden]

RELEASE DATE TIME

Time for some exciting news everyone! My #fantasy book, Tavern, has its official release date, March 26th! The official cover and map reveal to be some time this week! 

[dopelovered]

cw daddy kink 😝😝

“you gonna keep fuckin’ me? mhm? gonna keep lettin’ daddy have it?” richie’s deep voice penetrates the brain fog his dick has induced upon you. on top of him on the couch is how you ride him, face tucked into his neck with his big hands draped over your waist. “keep fuckin’ me, just like that. lemme feel it, baby. make me feel it.” you keen, whining hoarsely at his words and they work, have you bouncing your ass on his lap smoother and rougher, working up and down his cock, which has him chuckling incredulously and throwing his head back onto the sofa.

[mcondance]

note: office sex, fnaf takes place in the 2000s so william’s gf is a Black juicy tracksuit hyperfem girly!, cervix kissing, praise (it’s me what do you expect), reader has braids, that’s it i believe

something along the lines of being bent over wiiliam’s desk in his office, thrown over mountains of paper spread over his desk while the words almost swim across the pages.

tracksuit pooled around your ankles, the red fabric pulled down hastily to let you and william get to the business that he finds much more important than counseling people on what jobs to get, it’s a show of desperation with how he fucks into you.

your shirt and jacket are splayed by the chair near the door, he’d pulled them off a couple minutes after you entered the room, after the candy scent that always follows you filled his nose as he hangs onto your every little word, his blue eyes dilating like a fuckin pavlovian dog, his whole body pumping blood to his cock at your smell, at the sight of the sparkling glitter that hangs onto your entire being.

your hands grip tight at the old wood, colorful acrylics sliding, trying and failing to find a tether as steve sends your body pressing into his desk. his hips are strong and rough as they slap wildly against the soft curve of your ass, big hands draped over your waist and digging just a little too hard into your dewy skin, a soft sheen casted over you, your back shimmery with sweat and sparkles.

stretched is how you feel, filled an even better word for the way he makes a home for himself inside you, fucks you so good you drool onto the desk beneath you, a disgusting pool of slick spit that you know he’ll see as a trophy after you’ve both had your fills.

a soft chuckle meets your ears, a rough hand slides up your thigh and it has you shivering, clenching down on his cock as he huffs out a groan, his eyes transfixed by how your body rocks forward and your ass ripples with each of his firm thrusts.

with every forward push of his hips the desk creaks, his hips against your ass sounds out, perverse pats and slaps filling the white-lit room. even in the poor lighting you look so pretty bent over like this, braids tossed to the side so they don’t get “messed up”, as he says, his infatuation with everything you do clear as day.

“pretty, pretty girl” he purrs, pushing in as deep as he can go now and you let you a pretty little cry, his girth stretching you out, thick tip pressing softly against your cervix. he stays there, humming appreciatively at your sounds and how you push back against him, grinding his pulsating length against that electric spot inside you.

“feels so good, so go- ah” you cut yourself off with a gasped squeak as he grinds himself just right and pushes forward. your head rolls forward, face down, and you’re pushed onto the desk again, glowy hands flexing as you tense up, teary eyes snapping shut. again he pushes, a little harder this time, and his name tag falls off the desk and clatters to the floor, the noise barely heard by either of you for being lost in the haze of pleasure.

“what, baby? finish your sentence.” he muses with a sensual lilt, delivering slow grinds. he wants to hear your slurred voice, wants to hear your heavy tongue try and fail to convey how you feel. but still, he asks, though he knows you’re too filled to even think.

he receives no response, just a hoarse groan, and his eyes find your hands; he almost coos at the way they’ve stopped grasping at his desk. you can’t even try to calm yourself down. he’s taken that from you.

shaking, you push your ass back weakly against him. he gladly follows your movements with admiration at how good you look fucking yourself on him.

“pussy fuckin’ me so good,” he groans, pulling back and pushing forward, feeding off your nasty, unbridled moans until he’s back at the pace he was before. the lewd sounds of sex fill the room again, your whined response to his groan mixing with skin against skin and the wet squelch of your cunt pervading out through the air.

your hand flies to his soft stomach, nails scraping his pillowy skin. he catches your wrist, intertwining his fingers with yours in a gesture that would be romantic if you weren’t being fucked nasty over his desk.

he doesn’t have to talk much and neither do you, you’re more than happy to just listen to the sounds that escape you both as you meet in the middle again and again and again.

[streetrunnazvol40]

Nauseating Tension

“Okay Google, play the album I Let It In and It Took Everything by Loathe.”

The quiet room dimly lit by the overcast skies quickly filled with sound as I prep my laptop for writing. I take a long drag of my backwoods before I type something.  Four years ago, today was the day I ended the situationship with someone I wanted to marry. She decided to pursue our mutual friend behind my back and I caught them having sex. This is the aftermath. 

The air had turned sour after our vacation. Tension so thick in that 7-hour ride that it'd bust the windows if it had a physical form. A thick, repugnant gas of betrayal, jealousy, greed and lust. There's a certain type of hatred between two friends who turned into enemies. The friends who chose their respective sides revel in the camaraderie of the side they choose, but for what is turned into happiness is just as quickly turned into a putrid and deeply founded hatred of the other side. 

When you make a group of people choose a black-and-white side in a world composed of an amalgamation of grays it dilutes the little purity in the well of truth that both parties have to drink from. 

It creates an unnecessary drought of logical thinking and clarity amongst even the most well composed individuals.  You tend to build a deep distain for someone after you see them turn into something that they promised they wouldn't.  

After all, they promised. 

Hours passed, things happened and my phone vibrated. 

"We need to talk."

"Yea."

"Our spot?"

"Yea otw"

We sat together for what seemed like hours after we decided that it be best if we ended our friendship. Best if we dissolve our group of friends and go our separate ways. We were outside our little alcove that no one knew about, and we didn't want to go back into such a special place for such a sour occasion. Maybe she'll take him there, or maybe I'll take someone else there. It's not ours anymore, I guess, so it's best if I just mind my own business.  

Once she saw my bruised knuckles, busted lip and broken nose, she couldn't look me in the eye. Hell, I probably looked something real ugly being all busted up and bruised. I thought it was an accomplishment to look like this, it was evidence that I was the better man, right?  I looked at her and she opened her mouth, but she closed it immediately. I started to speak, but I just dropped it. I didn't have anything to say anyways.  We'd exchange glances as the other looked away, seemingly proving to ourselves that we'd lost our compatibility in a matter of hours. 

She exhaled and shifted her body, while brushing her hair out of her face as she moved away from me. I sank my head and looked off into the distance down the long hallway that separated us from the rest of the building.

All these battle scars revealed was that she wasn't interested in me, at least not anymore. In fact, it seemed like she was afraid of me. It wasn't the fact that I was fighting, she'd been used to that. Seemed like everyone from my city was angry, and we had a reputation for it. I come from a city of broken spirits, drug addicts, and dulled men. A city where the best you could do was a factory job, or a city job and all that’s left is the anger that seeps out from a lack of opportunities. A city where you have to constantly be aware of your surroundings. I had a flashback of the physical altercation from hours earlier, and clenched my fists in anticipation as I glanced over my shoulder. We made eye contact. 

"You okay?" 

I grimaced. Honestly, no. I mean, I fought three people at once and got the shit kicked out of me, who would be? Had I not been a competent fighter I wouldn't have been able to get one of them down. He was the one who’d wronged me anyways. They won the battle; I won the war. I thought of what I could say that could comfort her, but I couldn't think of anything. 

"Yea."

Another bout of silence. There aren’t any lofty sentiments, just a stillness of death that can only come from the ending of a relationship no matter the significance. it seemed like we were both waiting for the other to say something, but neither of us could will ourselves to speak. 

The floor vibrated, and my phone screen came to life. It was my ex. 

"Can I see you daddy?"

"Yea"

She had to have seen it because she sank even lower. She contorted her face and exhaled. Punching her in the stomach might’ve been softer than what text had done. I figured it'd be best if I leave now before the pain sets in, so I get up and straighten my clothes. 

"I gotta go.”

"I know. Goodbye, Justin."

"Yea."

I heard her sniffling as I rounded the corner. 

[missvmisery]

When did a double standard become the standard?

I try appeasing

But it never works

It's wanting to do the right thing but getting punished anyways

When did a double standard become the standard?

-When Did A Double Standard Become The Standard

[quillrosetellsstories]

NaNoWriMo Update One

I want to keep updates posted of my progress this month but I find that I'm not keeping track based on word count, but on chapters. I do want to share my breakdown though--

100,000 words total

5 sections of 7 chapters each

20,000 words per section

2,900 words per chapter

This is the outline I'm using, so when I've finished a chapter I assume it falls into this estimate. In the end I'll run a comprehensive count. As long as each chapter is near 3k, I don't fret and move to the next.

So far, I have 8 of 35 chapters finished and it's the 7th day of NaNoWriMo. I could pick up the pace...

[flamespeaks]

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This is deep #flamespeaks #tonimorrison #tonimorrisonquote #potd #qotd #blackwriter #blackwriters #blackwomenwriters #pocwriters #thetruth https://www.instagram.com/p/Bzw2ZIIll87/?igshid=j3scany3q6ao