#where will it air? pornhub?

[rebelwith0utacause]

.

[kaisa-ryo]

little revenge

soshiro hoshina x reader

tw: 18+, obscenity (blowjob), english isn’t my native language!

***

In the quiet office of the headquarters, where Hoshina sat, only the occasional tapping of the keyboard could be heard. The pungent scent of coffee, lingering in the air, was soothing. The damn paperwork and the mountains of information that Soshiro had to double-check almost daily were draining him to the bone. In short, everything was as usual. This feeling of stability and immutability seemed to protect him from surprises.

But not this day.

A timid knock came from behind the door. It was so unexpected for the guy that he flinched slightly.

“Come in.”

Seeing you in the doorway was a big surprise, as you were supposed to be asleep for two hours already.

“Y/n? Did something happen?” Soshiro completely turned away from his laptop and turned towards you, placing his hands on his lap.

“Yes. I saw the light behind this door and thought you weren't asleep.” Your soft voice was a delight to his ears.

“What? But you know I almost always stay late here. Is that really the reason for your coming?”

“Not at all, Captain.”

“Captain”? We're not in public. Why the formality? After a one-second pause, you slowly approached him, which only raised more questions for him. Your gaze was quite… uncharacteristically playful. His eyes were fixed on you. Inside the brunette was a complete mess of thoughts about what was about to happen. Not that your behavior scared him, just… it was very… unexpected for him?

To his bewildered surprise, you sat on the vice-captain's lap, facing him, with your legs spread on either side. From this gesture, Soshiro didn't even know where to put his hands. Blood began to slowly rush to his face. As if something whispered to you to do this specifically to embarrass him.

In one moment, your face came so close to his that the distance between you was just over an inch. Your sharp look would give anyone goosebumps. Even your deputy commander.

You gently run your finger across his lips, causing him to blush even further.

“It's okay. I just want you to relax a little.”

Without missing a beat, you slide under the table and get on your knees. If the deputy commander was a regular PornHub visitor, he would have understood what was going on.

But before he could think about it, you unbuckled his belt.

You look into his eyes. You were flattered by his reaction to what you were doing. Well, there was no point in him starting this game first.

Just under a week ago, you, like him now, had to experience mixed feelings. You guys were fucking all morning before work. Not only did you end up soaking wet, but Soshiro thought it was a good idea to take your panties for the whole day. This toothy, self-absorbed jerk hid them in his pocket stealthily, pretending he hadn't taken them at all, and spent the whole day holding back laughter at how you blushed and squirmed, being in a short skirt, just so no one would notice that you were without underwear. You were so cute when you glared at him maliciously from the crowd. He definitely deserved an award for the best prank.

“Get and sign, Soshiro.”

“Y/n… mf-f…”

Slowly squeezing out his pre-cum, you enjoyed his reaction, stroking his cock up and down while he trembled. You were in no hurry to take him in your mouth. Turns out, teasing Vice-Captain Hoshina was a very interesting sight. Tonight, you would give anything to see him like this, needy, cute boy.

“Y/n, n-no… what are you doing..? I can't right now…”

“Hm? You don't like it? Should I stop?” Oh, how skillfully you were playing with fire now, knowing he wouldn't say “yes.”

The brunette didn't know what to answer. On the one hand, it wouldn't be very pleasant if you were both like two vegetables the next day, or worse: Mina would see you. But on the other hand, it was truly necessary right now, besides, you looked damn enchanting, kneeling before him, with the knowledge that you could be seen. Just like in a cartoon erotic film.

“No, keep going.” The guy said with difficulty, continuing to watch your actions. Well, how can you refuse such a boy, right?

You run your warm tongue along his tip and the guy immediately flinches.

“Ready to cum already?” you tease.

“Just shut up and keep going.”

What a impatient one.

After playing with his tip, you run your tongue along the entire length.

Soshiro moans and groans. This is the first time you’ve seen him like this.

You continue running your tongue along his cock, giving him the feeling that you’re about to take it in your mouth. Just think, you’re so good at this…

“Y/n, please…”

“Please what?” You knew what it was, but you wanted him to say it himself.

“Please, let me cum…”

Heavy sighs filled the entire room, gradually making it more and more like a brothel. The realization of what was happening seemed to never quite reach the guy. The thought of saying it to your indecent desire, from which you can’t hide, made your fingers clench your hair. The tip went deep into your throat, pushing him down slightly, and the guy paralyzed by being hard, was completely in your power. A whirlwind of thoughts swirled in his head, if they were even there, then they were still very vague and unstable - you set this high note yourself. A little more - and you will reach that very end, where you will hear his loud moan.

“More… like this… aggh!”

To be honest, you were starting to feel sick. But it was worth it to see him worn out from such a pleasurable blowjob. If it weren’t for the incident with the panties, you would have melted in front of him.

“I’m at my limit… keep going, p-please…”

The tempo was increasing. It felt like you could go faster every second.

You didn’t have time to notice how your mouth was filled with hot cum, and Soshiro’s grip on your hair became much stronger. Trying to look into his eyes, you only saw his head thrown back against the back of the chair. From that angle, you could even see the veins in his neck bulging from tension. He is so good, after all.

Besides swallowing the cum and waiting for his further actions, you had no other choice.

“Fuck, damn… ” he exhaled barely audibly, overcome by dizziness and a surge of orgasm, “Come here, baby.” The guy reached out to you to pull you onto his lap.

Without rushing, you climbed out from under the table, wiped your mouth from the leftover cum, and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” The brunette asked, as if under stress.

“Where? To my room. It’s late.” Unusually for you, but quite funny to pretend to be a fool.

“What? Y-you can’t leave me here like that!” Soshiro yelled indignantly, blushing like a lobster.

“Shush, Vice-captain, they’ll hear you. Good night~”

“No! Wait!”

Before he could finish, with a soft chuckle, you slammed the door.

Poor Soshiro didn’t know what to do with his hard as jade dick. Hiding it now would be oh-so-very difficult.

“Damn… I think I messed up…”

[thecapricunt1616]

Pink Pony Club (Richie Jerimovich one-shot)

♡ One-Shot Inspo: Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan "I'm up, and jaws are on the floor. Lovers in the bathroom and a line outside the door. Blacklights, and a mirrored disco ball Every night's another reason why I left it all" ♡ Summary: You're an Exotic Dancer / part time house mom at The Pink Pony, and end up falling for a man that is probably old enough to be your father. ♡ W/C: 2.9k ♡ Poste Date: 06/10/2024 ♡ A/N: Hello all! again, for the asks that are atp starting to mold in my inbox - imma get to you. This specific dirty old man in a suit has been making me feel things lately, so naturally I had to write some porn about it. Asks are still open even though I cant promise it'll be done snappy. Hope everyones week is off to a great start so far!! Tagged those who commented on the post saying this would be a good idea just so you could see how it came out, hope you like :) ♡ Warnings for BTC: Age gap relationships (R is in her mid-to-late 20's, mentions of sex work, Club environments, swearing, smut, rough sex (Richie likes to be slapped around sometimes, kay?) lowkey simp!Richie, no use of Y/N - pet names only, readers stage name is Pixie Polestar , unprotected sex, not edited, we die like men!

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 ♡ ➵ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡ ➵ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ♡

You had met Richie just about 2 months ago. It was safe to say, life had chewed him up and spit him out lately. 

If he was being honest with himself, the dating pool wasn’t exactly rich at 46 years old. He could count on almost two hands how long it had been since he got his dick up for more than just the binightly pornhub browser. 

That led him into the Pink Pony Club one fateful August night. You were working your usual shift, Pixie Polestar. You - unlike some of the other girls - really enjoyed your job. At least, the aspect of having fun on stage, doing cute, sexy little acrobat-like tricks on the pole while horny men paid you to take more of your clothes off?

Yes please. 

You weren’t a back room kind of girl, usually. That was because the amount of money you made from tricks on the pole was more than a lot of the girls you worked with made in a whole shift while you just worked the 45 minute trick-filled stage set then would give a few $400 lap dances depending on your mood, before skipping on home, taking a hot shower, and slipping in your silk sheets with your air conditioner turning your bedroom something akin to an ice box. 

That was how that night was supposed to go. 

How the night really went, was some loud borderline obnoxious man at least 15 years your senior, had found his way into the Pink Pony. He was wearing a pressed navy blue suit, that complimented his pretty blue eyes. That was the second thing you noticed about him while he loudly whistled for Krystal who was currently doing her set. 

You weren’t really supposed to be here anymore - well- you didn’t have to be here. You had found yourself a solution, a real career path if you will. But you enjoyed your time on the pole because it was art, and dancing was a confidence booster for you. In any regard, you were going to get older, you were going to pass your prime as the house mom was always telling you girls, so you needed another stream of income. 

Of course, being a … *eh-hem* - exotic dancer was the word you preferred, stripper just sounded trashy to you, did come with its negative stereotypes, one of which being no where will rent to you - because you had terrible credit. So, naturally, being the resourceful woman you are - you walked your happy ass to the open house of a for sale by owner showing, and told the nice realtor you’d take it. 

Boom. Done, you had a place to live in 3 weeks, when you closed on it. Then, it dawned on you. The other girls you worked with had the same issue you did. So, you found another house, saved another 25k for the amount to put down, and rented it to your coworkers. 

It was the perfect system, because you knew you’d get your rent. You knew exactly how much money each girl made because you watched them make it, you knew where they lived, and they had to look you in the eye every night. So it’s easy to say no one ever tried you. The only real reason you hung around The Pink Pony anymore was because you wanted to keep an eye on your girls and dancing was fun too. 

When he first laid eyes on you, it was something akin to a cartoon character when their pupils turn into hearts. It wasn’t too abnormal, you were one of the more bombshell-esc dancers at the club, and that isn’t to say that you outdid anyone it was all based on preference. Some men loved plain Jane’s, and the plain Jane’s were just as beautiful as any of the other girls, but the reaction of men basically tripping over their feet to try and come talk to you was more likely going to happen to you then anyone else.  

But he…didn’t come over, that was interesting to you. So, you being the master of customer service you were, took your drink and kept your eyes locked on his as you made your way across the room, and plopped right in his lap. “Never seen you here before sweetheart” your manicured hand found the back of his neck, gently caressing over his skin. 

He tried to play it cool, but your tits we’re basically in his face, he could smell your perfume perfectly, fuck he genuinely can’t believe that a girl so beautiful just sauntered over and sat in his fucking lap. Was he dreaming? He found his mind racing, and for once in his 46 years he was dumbfounded and couldn’t find anything to say. 

“Cat got your tongue honey?” You smirked a bit, gently cupping his stubbly cheek and rubbing your thumb over his bottom lip, pulling it gently before letting it snap back into place. He swallowed thickly, his hand resting on your bare thigh, just below the white glittery mesh coverup you were wearing. 

“I’m Richie.” He blurted out, his cheeks felt like they were on fucking fire, any blood that wasn’t rushing there was rushing to his cock and he found himself wondering when the last time he’d gotten hard so easy was. 

“Well hello Richie. I’m Pixie, what brings a handsome man like you in on a Friday night mm, no big plans?” You absentmindedly played with his chain, pretending to pay no mind to the long length that was hardening in the curve of your ass. All you would have to do is shuffle just a tiny bit and his cock would be nestled between your cheeks and the itty bitty powder pink g string that you wore beneath the tiny mesh piece of fabric that was basically for show and no use to cover anything. 

“I guess I was lookin’ f’some entertainment. Think I found it” he spread his legs more, causing you to sink further into his lap and his hand found the curve of your waist, his thumb rubbing little up and down strokes over the smooth skin. He never believed that the sheer triple x rated porn movie he was creating in his mind would become a reality that night but man did it. 

It was also his first night taking the dreaded viagra prescription his doctor had given him when he got real about his … shortcomings as of late. The man isn’t what he used to be stamina wise, okay? Nonetheless - he still rocked your shit - well, more like you rocked his. 

Who knew this foul mouthed, old school, borderline toxic masculinity-entrenched motherfucker would get so much pleasure from your palm coming across his cheek just hard enough it left a yummy sting and telling him “My eyes are up here you old pervert” as you bounced on his cock with a rhythm he couldn’t bring to the table himself anymore, and that in turn causing your tits to bounce like a fucking hentai film less then a foot from his face. 

Something about a younger girl calling him old and smacking him around all while using his cock to get herself off, babbling about how good he makes her feel made him more confident then he had been in years.

He often would find himself feeling a little pang of sadness after you started seeing eachother, in moments where you two were laughing a way he only ever did with Mikey before you came around, and making him feel like he was in fuckin’ High school again with how giddy he was to see you after every shift. All of it would just remind him how bad he wishes you could have met Mikey, and how bad he wishes he could tell Mikey. 

Richie knows, he would be so jealous, but in a brotherly way - that such a young hot piece of ass, a young smart, hot, funny, piece of ass was calling him daddy, told him he was ‘her mans’ whatever the fuck that meant. He assumed girls today call their boyfriends that, there were a lot of little phrases and lingo you had to explain to him and would always make fun of him for being old after doing so. 

He would tease you too, having some late 80s early 90’s radio station on (because the old head didn’t understand what streaming was) while he drove you around of course since he had learned from you that you were his ‘passenger princess’ and saying something like ‘oh babygirl this is before your time, this is from my day” before cranking up the radio and serenading you with Bad Girl by Madonna, belting it in such a silly, dramatic way between drags of his cigarette you couldn’t help but burst into giggles and kiss him at the next red. 

You had told him that when you used to do private dances that Like a Virgin was one of your favorite to dance to for the ‘older’ gentleman, he spanked you playfully when you said his crowd was older as he usually did, and of course later that night he had you perform for him and you ended up getting your back blown out to material girl since you had been streaming the song from your phone and didn’t care to find it and turn it off. 

When Tina had played it jokingly at family dinner one night, he couldn’t help the smirk that came to his lips at the memory. Funnily enough, she was the first person to find out about you. Of course, he didn’t divulge anything other than he was finally seeing someone consistently, nothing about your age or profession. Based on the way Tina had reacted with clapping and kissing his cheeks, gushing “I’m so proud of you papa! That’s so good, this is so good for you! You need to get out there more” he was reevaluating his social life or lack there of and telling himself he needed to get out more, which lucky for him you were young and bubbly so you could get him out of the house. 

The next person he told, he really told, was Carmy. Well- technically Syd too, but she just happened to overhear. 

“W-wait wait” Carmy pinched the bridge of his nose how he did when he was baffled and confused, brows knitting together as he shook his head. “Lemme- lemme just get this straight - y’datin a…..” 

“Ex-o-tic dancer, cousin. It’s 2024, fuckin hell. Women dance and get paid for it - no big deal.” He repeated, emphasizing each sound as if what he was explaining was the most casual thing in the world, which - you had explained to him it should be so he took that and ran with it. 

“You’re fucking…a stripper- a stripper that’s what they’re called when they dance naked -  and how old did you say she was?” Syd questions. 

“Hey- she leaves her panties on she’s only naked top up, and plus she doesn’t even have to anymore she does it for the art.” He points the spoon he was wiping down at Carmy “this new NOMA bullshit we’re doin’ here isn’t the only art, Cousin. Shes an artist” he dropped the spoon in the bucket with the rest of the pristine ones he’d worked on. 

“Sure- and she’s fuckin younger then me” Carmy replied. “She could be y’fuckin-“

“Yeah, yeah - whatever she could be my fuckin daughter where’s your girlfriend huh? I don’t see anyone linin’ up to fuck you. She’s nice, and into me - and - and she’s funny and smart. So see already 2 qualities named that I don’t see much of around here so excuse fuckin me f’wantin to be happy when I’m not in this shithole” he teased 

“So- this not even 30 year old, she is gonna be y’date to the thanksgiving friends and family night - the one your daughter and ex wife are attending - and you think that will be a good idea considering tiff’s track record with girls you bring around” Syd questioned. 

“Yup” was all he said before taking the now finished bin of spoons to be put away, glad for the conversation to have finally been over. 

He rehashed the whole conversation with you later that night as you slowly rolled your hips into his, your skin sticking to his, both of you covered with a thin layer of sweat. You had his hands pinned next to his head, fingers interlaced with yours, practically speaking into your mouth as you kissed him sloppy and open mouthed, obsessed with eachothers taste. You always tasted of bubblegum, a habit you’d carried with you since childhood, he always tasted of cigarettes, a habit he had carried since high school. 

“Baby with my job I’m used to people not understanding me - I didn’t expect your friends to like me. My job - it can make people uncomfortable. But fuck them. You know how we feel huh?” You picked up the speed of your hips, using the curly deep brown patch of hair at the base of his cock to cause the most delicious friction with each thrust on his cock as you chased your orgasm. 

“Ye’ fuck em baby- shit- so fuckin tight- all mine right?” He breathed, mouthing over the bruises he’d left on your breasts a few nights ago. That was one thing about your job he had a bit of difficulty getting past, but you assured him you had no feelings for any clients and that you weren’t doing lap dances anymore only your stage set and otherwise you were just there to be more of a second house mom. But still, he was a man after all. He was possessive, a little jealous sometimes. So he loved to hear that you were only his during moments like this. 

“Yes daddy- all yours. You own this- you own me” you kissed his hand before bringing it to your breast and then using his shoulders as leverage to bounce further up and down, the action causing his head to fall back and jaw to fall slack. 

“Just like that - god- fuck - holy shit baby- shit-shit- y’fuckin close? How fuckin long has it been?” He pinched your nipple lightly, causing your pussy to clench around him and a pornstar like whine to leave your lips 

“It’s been 15 minutes- Christ you’re like a teenager. Can’t even last 30 minutes?” You teased, leaning in and kissing his neck, biting and nibbling the skin as you circle your hips, essentially jutting the tip of his cock into your g spot and that floaty feeling sneaking up on you as you feel him shoot rope after rope of arousal, painting your pretty, gummy walls a milky white and his stomach muscles clenching at the overstimulation. 

The grunts and moans that left his lips when you got him here were some of the hottest noises you’d ever heard a man make before, you were always sure to file them away in a special little folder in your brain for a rainy day he wasn’t able to get you off himself. “Feel good daddy?” You asked sweetly, sitting up and resting your hands on his hips so you could look down and watch as your mixed arousals gush out of you and around him, thick strings breaking with each slow, purposeful roll of your hips 

“So fuckin good baby- Jesus gonna finish soon? Dunno how much more I can do” he said, voice breathy, blissed out, nearly whiny. 

“Mmhmm few more minutes daddy- god we’re so pretty, I bet we taste so good mm?” You swipe the pad your forefinger over your clit, gathering the sweet and bitter white, making a show of rubbing it over the hardened bud of your nipple “feels good, too, wanna tell me how it tastes?” You leaned in and he nearly groaned as he took your breast in his mouth, crystal like eyes seeding into your own gaze as he flicked his tongue gratefully around the sensitive nub. 

You whined hotly, the sight of your tit in his mouth mixed with the feeling of his pants huffing through his nose and fanning over the swollen flesh as his tongue swirled and licked and flicked and drove you over the edge. You cried out, hips stuttering as you rode out your orgasm. His hand found your heat, rubbing with scissored fingers over your clit and meeting around his cock before dragging his fingers back up to repeat the assault. 

The action had you gushing around him, the contractions of your heat getting stronger causing him to groan into your skin and that vibration just added more stimulation. “Fuck yes- god daddy- always make me feel so good, no one understands how good we make eachother feel hm? Nothing else matters, baby, as long as you feel good, right?” 

You pulled him in for a sloppy, hot, passionate kiss. A kiss that made his heart do flips, and his stomach flutter, and made him feel way lighter.

Richie thought to himself in that moment he may be falling in love again, and he was equal parts fucking terrified, and excited to see where things with you went. 

He just had to get over ripping off the very last bandaid, and then you could really be together -

And that bandaid was Tiff.

@aestheticaltcow - @myszie - @wtfsteveharrington

[turtledovenycx]

"Under the stage, below the platform" (𝐁.𝐂)

🎧Chase Atlantic - Heaven and Back

“The feeling of pleasure with the thrill of not being caught was so naughty, so wrong.”

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧

𝐭𝐚𝐠: 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧! 𝐚𝐮, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭🔞

𝐖.𝐂 𝟒.𝟐𝐤

ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜᴛ. ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐒𝐞𝐦𝐢-𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚, 𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠)

“She looks good in that skirt.” Chan’s thoughts were half rational and half PornHub. He was not the kind to lose his cool that easily, being the leader of an unruly but lovable band that behaved like children for half of his life, he was well versed in keeping calm but lord! Were you testing him today? 

The crew had given the boys a holiday under supervision. In light of their fame, they had to select an amusement park where they wouldn’t be disturbed too much. The crowd at this park was present but thankfully scattered. It was just the managers, the boys, and a few friends, no cameras, no scripts, and no retakes, they had the freedom to just be themselves without the pressure. However, this was not necessarily a good thing especially for Chan because if the boys were loud on camera, they were supersonic off camera sometimes completely forgetting their idol image. The perks were their VIP passes which ensured they did not stay at one spot for long enough to be noticed. 

Some of the boys invited their s/os’ like Chan while the single members of the group took the liberty to bring their closest friends. It was like an extended hangover, after the initial awkwardness of the meet-up and introduction, the atmosphere shifted from bashful laughter to free laughter. Since for some of them, it was a date the team decided to form small groups or go as couples until they regrouped for lunch at the nearby place. This was the most normal they had been in their recent schedules. 

You and Chan decided to venture off alone, going through the highlight rides before it got too crowded and then slowly making your way across one end of the park to the other. It was so refreshing as both of you spent time laughing and wandering in and out of stores and souvenir shops. Your laughter increased tenfold when both of heard what sounded like Changbin’s scream as the ride rose into the air and dropped. The ride read DareDevil and Chan's phone lit up with a notification, a selfie - in which Lee Know was smirking wearing a devil horns headband, Changbin crying in the background, and Jeongin losing his shit from laughter. You both stared at his phone the group chat alive from the incoming messages, you sipped from Chan’s drink, his focus turning to yours while your attention was on the phone. 

Your eyes crinkled at the edges as the grin never left your face, a soft laugh escaped as the phone lit up with new messages and more pictures of poor traumatized Binnie. Your lips looked so soft, so plump and bright now resting between your teeth as you tried to control your laughter. You took another sip of the slushie your eyebrows narrowing at the cold. 

Just like it narrows when- 

“Channie, want ice cream?” You asked looking up to find him staring at you, his face so close to yours his nose almost brushed yours when you lifted your head. He tucked his phone back into his pocket before brushing a stray strand of hair off your face. He nodded, his eyes landing briefly on your lips before he pulled himself together. “Yeah.” He said clearing his throat, you smiled before walking forward, hand in his leading him through the crowd. Chan was a gentleman, your boyfriend treated you like a princess in and out of bed. He was never against PDA but he held himself back from kissing you in public given his responsibilities of his image and most importantly he did not want you to feel overwhelmed not that you ever could with how comfortable you were with him.

It had started with your skirt, Chan loved your body and soul, and he urged you to do the same. He was the happiest when you pushed past your insecurities and dressed up… just for him at times. To him you are the most beautiful being in the room regardless of where you guys are. As of right now, The skirt you had on was soft, not as soft as your plush thighs but soft and fell seductively till your mid-thigh. The ruffles and bows drew attention to the material and your legs… oh your legs Chan thought, ‘Mine’.

 The top you wore was tight in all the right places, accentuating the curves of your torso and your breasts peaking out from the sweetheart neckline. The two-layered necklace that adorned your neck completed the look, a surge of possessiveness went through his body after seeing the C imprinted on the choker. 

“There it is” you chimed stopping abruptly, Chan almost did not hear you. There was a queue in front of the stand, you hesitated ‘What if someone recognized Chan?’

“We can get it som-” he pulled you forward and stood behind a mother and her kids who were waiting in line. You stood a step behind him. 

“Chris, what if someone sees you?” you whispered using his first name, his cock stirred in his pants you only called him that when you were serious or horny. 

“I’m wearing a hat, plus I don’t see anyone who could potentially notice us, “ he replied after doing a quick scan of the short queue, a few kids, parents, moms and dads juggling toddlers and some teenage couple. 

“Okay,” you sighed, slipping your hand into his and interlocking your fingers, Chan brought your palm to his mouth placing a soft kiss on top. You blushed and smiled brightly up at him and Chan wanted to kiss you so badly. Oh fuck! 

You guys talked about this and that, you trying to make sure no one saw Chan and him trying not to bend down and kiss you square on the mouth. He successfully distracted you as you recited the latest drama that was going on in your workplace. You rambled on and on pouting slightly at the memory of the argument and Chan found it adorable. He even thought about pulling you in between the stores and fulfilling his wish. But before he had to go to the bathroom. 

“Baby, I need to go use the restroom,” he said placing a discreet kiss on your head. You nodded, the line was slowed down because the machine had stopped. Chan walked away from the line as two workers wrestled with it. 

When he returned you were on your phone and there was just one customer in front of you. He took a once over of you again, standing there brows knitted in concentration, one hand playing with your necklace before looking up at him, your face smoothed and a smile broke down, your turn was up as he jogged towards you. 

“Hi, what can I get you?” the boy behind the screen asked before his eyes landed on you. His eyes too flicked to your lips for a split second as you skimmed the menu. The appearance of your boyfriend next to you wiped the small smirk of the boy’s face replaced by a disappointed frown. This however did not go unnoticed by Chan. 

“I’m thinking blackberry or should I get mango?” you ask breaking the glare he held onto the boy as he looked down at you. 

“Get what you want love.” he deadpanned, his curt answer surprised you, but you brushed it off.

“I’ll have the blackberry swirl.” you smiled at the boy who clicked onto his screen, “would you like that to be in a cone or cup?” He returned with an over-enthusiastic smile. “Cone please” he nodded. 

“And a salted caramel-” you stated looking at Chan for confirmation, he nodded before smiling to himself giddy that you knew exactly what he craved.

“Cone or cup.” the boy rudely asked eyes turning to Chan, he glared back with the same intensity. “Cup.” Chan would have added a please or a smile under normal circumstances but this guy was being rude.  

“Could I interest you in any toppings?” he asked eyes trained on you as you were busy watching the ice cream being scooped.

 “I don’t know it's an additional few dollars.” 

“It’s on the house.” the boy smiled as his co-worker scooped up the blackberry swirl in a generous amount and placed it on a cone covered with tissue. 

“Oh really?” you asked, his smile grew brighter, and Chan clenched his jaw.

“Chocolate sprinkles in the salted caramel please,” you said placing the menu down. The poor boy’s face fell and Chan held back a laughter. He was beaming with pride at the guy's failed attempt. Chan wasn’t usually petty and he understood how people would look for an extra few seconds when you were so beautiful. But it’s the way his eyes trailed your torso every time you weren’t looking and the fact that even though it was established that you were taken he would not back off purposely ignoring and behaving rudely to Chan. 

“Right it's 18 dollars,” he said his eyes glancing at your chest when you looked away to retrieve the money from your purse.

“I got it,” you said but before you could pay Chan had given his card. 

“Make it 20 dollars,” Chan said smirking, holding out the card in his hand in front of your body, covering your chest and blocking the creeps view. 

“I could have paid,” you said pouting, he wrapped his arms around your waist pulling you close as you guys moved to the pick-up counter

“Funny, you think I  would let you pay,” Chan said as your orders were done. 

“Thank you,” you said grabbing the sweet treat and licking off the top, before helping Chan get his spoon and you were off. 

You guys walked in silence before you started. “But still, you are always paying for everything. The trip, our souvenirs even the VIP bands,” you say eating your ice cream while arguing why you should be allowed to get the ice cream you and Chan are currently devouring. Fully paid. 

“Okay first, the trip and VIP bands are from the company, secondly I like paying for everything, not because I have to or I don't think you can pay but because it makes me happy. I don’t want you to pay, just be here with me, I’ll accept that as payment.” He said almost finishing his cup, extending the last bite to you which you gladly accepted. 

“That was cheesy and maybe we shouldn’t have ordered the toppings... Does it taste weird or just me?”

“It tastes fine.” He shrugged throwing the cup in the nearby bin, you guys were on this street set of the theme park. The sides are lined with fake stone buildings with wax statues and stores. There were red phone booths and short streetlights on the path you both walked. 

“Speaking of weird, Channie did you feel the dude was being a bit rude?” You asked halfway through your cone. 

“Yeah, maybe a bit,” he said holding your hand in the process. 

“A little huh? You looked like you wanted to shoot lasers at him,” you stated, he looked baffled.

“You noticed?” he asked you giggled at how shy your boyfriend seemed now.

“Baby, he was being weird I honestly wanted to cancel when he was rude to you. I’m not that clueless you know. I saw you glare at him.” you guys had stopped walking, Chan did not how he felt. Silly? Proud? Turned on? 

“It was kind of hot.” you winked and that was the last straw, Chan pulled you between two fake buildings into an alleyway. 

“Chan-” you gasped but he had his lips on yours before another word. He tasted like caramel without the weird aftertaste of the toppings. His kisses were fervent, hot, and desperate. 

“Princess. wanted. To. kiss. From. before.” he said in between kisses, his hands fervently grabbing your body. Your waist, your hips, your butt, your hands, your face. 

“Me too,” you said hand grabbing his collar the other balancing your almost finished ice cream. 

“I wanted to kiss you too,” you said kissing his soft lips he held the back of your head, angling it so that he could press to you closer. The taste of caramel and blackberry mixing invades both your senses.

The need to breathe broke the heated kiss, Chan placing his forehead on yours and gasping. You had a smile on your face. 

“You wanted to kiss me too?” he asked, one of his palms gently holding your cheek, he placed a chaste kiss on them. 

“Mhmm.” you nodded, biting your lower lip, “Since we stepped in the park, I was scared that someone would see us and recognize you,” you admitted looking at your boyfriend. His lip now appeared swollen, glistening with your gloss and saliva. His eyes clouded and had a mischievous glint in them. 

“I know me too…. I love you,” he told you kissing your lips to seal his words. You giggled as he alternated with loud smooches and soft kisses all over your face. Chan’s love has always been this and it enthralled you, silly and pure. 

“Chris…” you gasped as a few drops of ice cream that was left on the cone fell onto your collarbone missing your garments. 

He smirked before looking in the direction you all came in, there were people but no one noticed the small nook. Chan grabbed the hand that held the small piece of cone before bringing it to his lips, 

“Mmm.” he exaggerated as he ate the cone, teasingly licking and biting your fingers in the process. Your face flushed red, and your breath became shallow. He moved onto your neck next, placing a long lavish lick from the base of your neck to the side of it. 

“Ah, Chris…” you moaned hand in his hair as he licked the ice cream off your collarbone, sucking and biting on the skin to leave a faint mark. He kissed the hickey and kissed his way till his teeth grazed the shell of your ear. 

Your hands found their way to his chest as he teased the skin behind your ear earning a soft whimper out of you. 

“We are in public… we can’t ..ah” you whispered as your boyfriend pulled your body flush against his. Hand slithering under your skirt he grabbed handfuls of your ass as he kissed you again, his tongue entering your mouth as you gasped. 

“Channie…” you pushed him away to put space between the two of you. Heaving as you guys neglected oxygen. He wasn’t done he had lost half his rational thoughts and right now all he wanted was you, more and more of you. He pulled you towards him by your hands and was about to kiss you when a loud whistle broke the trance you were in, clearing both of your thoughts and reminding you guys that people could see you. No one noticed thankfully the whistle was just a group of friends goofing around. 

“I need more,” he whispered in your ear as you straightened his shirt, wiped gloss off his lips, and tended to yourself. Your face felt hot at his submission his hands snaking around your waist. Your boyfriend rarely showed this side of him, but you became excited and shy when it did. He was so demanding and his usual shyness faded revealing a bold man with a filthy mouth.

“We can’t, not here,” you said placing a kiss on his lips and walking towards the front of the alley. A few kids had begun to look into the space wondering. 

He pulled you back a few steps. “The restrooms?” 

“Chan, it's the holiday season, and a lot of people will be there in the restroom how are you gonna sneak into the women's room.” you laughed as you both emerged from the nook onto the street.

“Wait, why me? I’ll sneak you in.” He protested.

“There is no way I’m sneaking into the men’s room,” you say

“But-” his whine got cut off with a phone call. 

“They are regrouping, it's 1 p.m.” He said. 

“So fast? Where was the pizza place again?” you questioned, looking at the hand map you guys had grabbed from the entrance, if you both made a shortcut through the stage field you could reach there in a shorter time. 

“Come on.” you grabbed Chan’s hand and walked towards the stage. 

The stage was not huge but it was big enough for a band of five and their equipment to perform. It was at a decent height and could be viewed from afar. This was the heart of the park, and a local band was set up to perform. Chan zigzagged his way through the crowd, till you guys reached the stage. The platform was raised and the same height as your boyfriend. The guards hadn’t set up the gates yet so both of you slipped in and went behind the stage where people were shifting and moving props. 

“Are we allowed in here ?” you questioned as you both speed-walked through the hustle and bustle. 

“No, I don't think so.” Chan said, “I thought so, babe we -” Your sentence was cut off again as Chris pulled you under the platform, through the black curtains. The underside was spacious it was filled with backup speakers, wires, equipment, and microphone stands. Boxes and cartons filled one side and a big sound woofer was placed next to it, you could hear footsteps above you. 

“What are you doing? we are gonna get kicked out,” you whisper- yelled as the Chan cornered you, you hit the woofers and Chan caged you in with his arms. 

“I told you I want more,” he said in his thick accent, eyes falling onto your lips. The dim light and space make that action insanely attractive.

“Someone could walk in.” you tried as he dipped his head between your shoulder and neck placing kisses. 

“We have to be quick then,” Chan stated before he shut you up with a soft kiss, you all but melted. The band had begun sound testing and the bass from the guitar reverberated through the platform, to the poles that held it, into your bodies. He bit slightly onto your bottom lip, earning a whimper out of you, and pulled back. Chan looked at you as you seemed to be in a daze, eyes glazed over, marks on your neck and collarbone, and gloss-smudged lips. Gorgeous. The confined space heated up quickly as he lifted you onto the woofer, people ran to and fro -on and behind that stage- but at that moment you couldn't care less, it was like you both had entered a different world. Where the two of you were alone.

His fingers began undoing the ties on your top, pulling the neckline down to expose your breast. 

“Ah, Chris-” you mewled when Chan kissed around your nipple, before playing with it using his tongue. The band had begun playing a song as Chan created bite marks around the supple flesh and sucked on your nipple till you couldn’t hold back your moans. 

“My girl, so sensitive here,” he said using his forefinger to circle your hardened bud, your body jerking at the action. He kissed you as his hands made their way all over your body, one palm gripped your ass as the other disappeared between your legs and moved your skirt out of the way. 

You moaned into his mouth your hands reached towards his bulge, trying to provide friction over the rough denim as he pushed your panties aside and played with your clit.

“You are so wet for me? Hm? All for me my baby…” he all but breathed into your mouth, one of his fingers entering you as you let out a whine. Chan groaned as you reached for his zipper but he stopped you. 

“I want to taste you.” He said before he got on his knees and pushed your skirt up,

“Channie-” you tried weakly as he licked a fat strip from your hole to your clit. Repeating the action he grabbed your hands and placed them on his head, silently asking you to hold his face to your cunt before he dived in under your skirt, the material covering his head partially, holding your panties to the side.

Chan ate your pussy with fervor and passion like he was quenched and needed water, he sucked on your clit before moving towards your hole and teasing the entrance. Your moans were drowned out by the music and commotion outside, and you let out a gasp as your man placed one of your thighs on his shoulder. The new angle allowed his tongue to enter your cunt, and you almost lost balance at the sensation. Your arm tired of holding yourself up so Chan wouldn’t have to bear your whole weight and the other playing with his tresses. He was relentless, slowing down to look at you and smirk before speeding up again. Surrounded by the pleasure you did not quite register two of his fingers entering you until you felt the beginning chills of your orgasm. His fingers scissored you open as his teeth grazed your swollen clit, fingers curled to hit that one spot that had you throwing your head back. Chan gazed to see you your top half undone, tits covered in his marks and spit, hair disheveled, lips between your teeth as you held tried to hold back your sounds. One of his hands reached up to your tit and kneaded the flesh.

“Chris…. Chris.. ah … oh Channie I can’t. Ah..” your foot dig into his back as broken moans and incoherent babbles left you as he fingered you, kissing your clit. "The feeling of pleasure mixed with the thrill of not being caught was so naughty, so wrong." You began moving your hips in sync with his head. The taunt feeling in your stomach snapped when his fingers pinched your nipple and your orgasm washed over you. Your hip jerked and Chan guided you with his hands on your hips as you rode out your orgasm. You tried to pull him up and return the favor but he declined. “It’s okay baby, you can pay me back once we are home.”

“But I-”

“If we start now I don't think I can hold back,” he admitted kissing your pussy once more before he placed your leg back on the ground and got up dusting his knees. Your legs felt weak and you needed a minute to catch your breath resting your head on his shoulder. Chris wrapped his arms around you placing kisses to soothe you on your head, eyes, and neck. You lazily kissed him as he tried to knot the strings of your top. You giggled and then fixed your top yourself. He held you, his arms around your waist while you rested yours around his neck. You fixed your hair and then smiled at Chan who was busy admiring the faint post-orgasm blush on your cheeks. The music continued outside oblivious of the atmosphere under the stage below the platform

“I love you,” you whispered in his ear not wanting to break the little bubble both of you found under a stage during a band rehearsal.

“I love you too,” he said kissing you again, your lips felt fuzzy. 

“I love you,” you repeated and he chuckled. “This because I didn't get to tell you at the alley. And this-” you placed a long kiss on his lips smiling against his lips, Chan feeling dizzy “for always taking care of me.” Before Chan could reply someone entered the space both of you jumping at the intrusion. 

“HEY! WHO ARE YOU? YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE?!” the woman yelled as someone else entered under the stage. Springing to action, you both ran out of the stage into the crowd. Chan grabbed your hand as he pushed through the crowd yelling out ‘Sorry, excuse us, pardon me mate.’ you guys did not stop till the stage disappeared behind and you were close to the pizzeria. You both stopped laughing and tried to catch your breath, you fixed yourself as Chan discreetly adjusted himself in his pants. You send an apologetic glance to which he just winks and kisses you briefly. As soon as you entered the restaurant you spotted your friends, the loudest in the bunch, it was remarkable how people had not recognized them when they doing everything but laying low. The shouting and hollering intensified as the two of you approached the somewhat private tables. 

“You’re late!” Jisung yelled, he was in a mid straw fight with Seungmin. “Yeah, we took the long route,” Chan said slipping into the booth after you. 

“Of course you did.” Lee Know said smirking, he noticed the flushed expressions, Chan’s messy hair, and faint marks on you before his eyes met Chan’s. You blushed and turned away from them engaging in something Felix said.

‘Not a word’ Chan glared at Minho. He smiled shrugging before turning away to share a knowing look with Hyunjin. The fuckers had bet on why you were late Minho won clearly as Hyunjin extended a five-dollar bill to him. “Guys, Changbin Hyung cried.” Jeongin reminded again as Changbin groaned.

“In-ah! For the last time, it was because of the speed” The laughter and shouting ensued and Chan placed his hands on your thigh. The clock on the wall read 1:50 and you hoped the day would not end.

_

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦. 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘺𝘤𝘹 ©

A/N: it was a bit long right? This is my first time writing smut so excuse any mistakes. I hope you enjoyed it. follow @turtledovenycx for more.

_nyx.☽༊˚

[rivatar]

Pandora’s Hub

Pairing: Adult!Lo’ak x Fem!Human!Scientist!reader

Warnings/content: MDNI 🔞, heavy smut, p in v, outdoor sex & recording (obvi), porn references/simulation, degradation & praising, creampie, flirty man-whore Lo’ak, squirting

A/n: Day 5 prompt (Outdoor Sex + recording) for Pandora’s Glow- hosted by @luvv4j4ybe11 @aperiraa! Sorry it’s a week late, I’ve had so much going on (graduations, weddings, birthdays, etc) but I finally finished this. And ngl it’s filthyyy hehehe🤭. Also I hope you guys get the ‘Pandora’s Hub’ = ‘Pornhub’. Idk I thought it was funny 💀

Dividers by @cafekitsune

W/c: 2.2k

It was a beautiful day on Pandora. Quietly humming to yourself, you made your way towards the forest where you would be collecting photos of many different plants to further your research. The book ‘Pandoran Botany’ that Grace Augustine wrote was literally like your Bible. You spent countless hours working with the other botanists to learn more about these plants and what they are capable of providing. Their beauty and wonder never failed to amaze you.

You’ve spent almost the past week coming out into different spots in the forest to capture photos of plants and try to identify them without looking in the book. Of course, you didn’t stray too far from the lab but each day you ventured out a little further and further, not being able to contain yourself each time you seen a new plant you’d never seen since you arrived on Pandora. But what was the harm, right?

You were crouched down in a spot, carefully focusing the camera on the details of this plant you found.

“What’re you doing out here?” A deep voice startled you, making you jump and gasp, nearly dropping the camera. You whipped around to find the source.

“Oh, Lo’ak,” you blew out a sigh of relief with your hand over your heart, “You scared the shit out of me!”

He laughed, flashing a wide and charming smile, looking at you in amusement. “Sorry, didn’t know you were so jumpy,” he teased with his hands on his hips.

You stood up from your crouch and gave him an eye roll, trying to suppress a smirk.

“Well, what are you doing?” He asked for the second time.

“Oh yeah— I’m just taking some pictures of some plants for my research,” you explained as he nodded in response. “What are you doing?” You threw the question back at him.

He tsked, “Last time I checked you’re on my terrain. Didn’t know I needed a reason to be out here.” He tilted his head at you holding your camera.

“Let me see this,” he snatched the camera out of your hand.

“Hey!” You tried to grab it back but he dangled it way above your head due to his much taller stature. “Be careful with it, Lo’ak, it’s got important stuff on there!” You scolded while jumping up and attempting to get it back. It was to no use, though.

He chuckled and seemed to enjoy teasing you. “Awww, the little human girl can’t reach. Aren’t you just pathetic?” he laughed and feigned pity, poking out his bottom lip in a fake sad expression all while holding you off with one strong arm.

He threw it up in the air and gasped to scare you, only for him to easily catch it with his large hands. Your heart dropped, not wanting the camera to shatter and lose all the photos it possessed.

“Knock it off, Lo’ak!” You shouted angrily and kicked his shin, only to make him bust out laughing.

“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” he kept laughing and petted your head.

“I’m not a fucking child, stop treating me like one!”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyes danced around playfully.

You didn’t answer, you didn’t know if he was still teasing or if it was a trick question. You just stared at him, eyes filled with anger.

He smirked and looked away from you to look at the camera, clicking through its contents.

“Hmm, these are pretty pictures,” he stated observingly, “But Eywa, you would look so much prettier in this camera” he flirted shamelessly.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, trying not to blush. It was no secret Lo’ak has always been a huge flirt.

“Oh please, Lo. Don’t you have anything better to do than flirting with me?” You asked peering up at him with your arms crossed.

He loved you calling him his shortened nickname and how you teased him back. He liked to think you were playing hard to get. All the other girls would’ve already submitted to him by now, but what’s the fun in that?

“Nah, I don’t think I do.” He quipped. “Have you never wondered what you’d look like on here?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’re you talking about?”

“Like they do back on earth. I think dad called it ‘porn’?” He asked nonchalantly.

Your jaw fell to the ground after you nearly choked on your spit. A blush crept over your features, not being able to hide your blush this time. “Lo’ak! You pervert!” You shoved his stomach and tried acting offended that he would insinuate such a dirty idea.

He chuckled at your reaction. “How am I the perv when you’re the one blushing, huh?”

Your blush deepened, much to your dismay, and you looked down at your feet.

He squatted down to be on your level. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you are curious about it” he spoke lowly, and you swore you could feel his breath on your face. He stretched an arm out to pull the strap of your tanktop and bra down your shoulder. Your stomach did flips and you were frozen in place, unable to stop him.

“Tell me you want to,” he demanded, already feeling impatient. “I know you do, I can smell you, but tell me you want it.”

“I-I want it, please,” you gave up your fight easier than you’d like to admit.

“Hmm, good girl. I knew you had it in ya,” he praised, loving that he broke you and won. He turned his attention back to the camera in his hand and pressed a button, making a red light come on in the corner as he pointed the camera towards you.

“Hey everyone, Y/N here is gonna show us how good she can be whenever she’s not bickering like a brat or hiding in that damn lab,” he started, and you blushed and couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“No one is seeing this, Lo.” You made it clear and shook your head, looking at him and not the camera lens.

“Oh, come on! I know that but don’t ruin the fun, baby.” He laughed. His smile faded and lust clouded his eyes, darkening his expression. “Now let’s see you take those clothes off, sevin,” he rasped.

Your heart was racing and you were nervous as hell. Not only because of the thrill of doing anything sexual with this hot Na’vi man, but also the thrill of doing it in on a video?? You were sure your heart was about to beat out of your chest.

Your hands were shaking a little as your reached for the bottom of your tank top, slowly peeling it up to raise it over your head and off. Your nerves made you slower and less confident. You had the first item of clothing off at least, time to tackle the rest.

“C’mon babe, this thing won’t be able to finish our video at the pace you’re going,” he laughed behind the camera, holding it up to his face to make sure you were perfectly centered.

You huffed in frustration and wiggled your shorts and panties off in one quick tug, flinging them off to the side and unsnapped your bra in a swift move as well to be completely naked. “There! Happy?”

He lowered the camera from his face so he could fully take in the sight for his own eyes. “Fuckkkk, yes,” he groaned out deeply, reaching down to palm his tented loincloth that was aching for some relief. His eyes were hooded and ate up every inch of your naked form, licking his bottom lip in the process.

His evident approval made your confidence boost and you didn’t feel as insecure to be exposed in front of him. You rubbed your thighs together as slick coated your pussy lips, you were more than ready for whatever Lo’ak had planned in that dirty mind of his. He chuckled seeing your apparent neediness and untied his loincloth with one hand, the other hand still making sure the camera caught every inch of your glory.

His cock sprung out as the cloth fell to the ground. You couldn’t help your mouth from hanging agape, taken aback by how huge and heavy he was. It took effort to force your eyes off his beautiful erection and back up to his equally beautiful face. He motioned you with his hand. “C’mere, babe.”

You gently walked towards him, waiting for him to make a move. He reached his hand out and grabbed your tit, fiddling with your nipple between his fingers. He smiled when you couldn’t help but hum and whimper in satisfaction. Then he lowered himself in a squat to get on your level and positioned the camera to get a closeup on your boobs.

“Fuck, these are perfect,” Lo’ak said while groping them, “Truly a work of art.” He continued to get all the angles of your breasts while playing with them, making your heart speed up.

Then he lowered himself more, opting to sit on the ground in front of you. Without warning, he hiked up one of your legs and you quickly gained your balance on your standing leg, hands finding rest on top of his head. He angled the camera to get a good view of your pussy as his other hand began playing through your glistening folds, collecting all your slick on his long fingers. You whimpered above him, the rough pads of his fingers bringing much pleasure to you.

He spread your lips apart, gaining a perfect view to your little hole. Looking through the camera, he made sure this stunning view was being captured. You blushed deeply at the way you were being put on display like a pornstar, but it turned you on beyond belief.

“Such a tiny little tawtute pussy,” he hummed and looked up at your eyes, “I’m gonna fuck it so good.”

You clenched around nothing, your one standing leg suddenly growing weak and wanting to give out. “Please Lo’ak!”

“Lay down, now,” he demanded and you wasted no time in rushing your way down to the forest floor, spreading your legs wide open.

“You’re so good. What a good little slut,” he praised you. He grabbed his rock-hard dick and ran it up and down your slit, earning a moan from you. Once again, he held the camera up and made sure it was getting all of this. Your pretty self laid out on display for him and his dick starting to breach your hole. It was nearly too much for him to handle.

Pushing in slowly, you gasped at the stretch and he groaned as you sucked him in your tight walls. He pushed and pushed until he nearly bottomed out, giving you a minute to adjust to his size. “You okay?” He asked, genuinely concerned you might break in half.

“Mhmmm, go, please!” You thought it was more painful with him being still inside of you instead of moving.

He obeyed and started with some short thrusts to get you going. He knew the interspecies differences would make this nearly impossible if you and him weren’t so damn turned on right now.

Squelching noises filled the air as you took him in your pussy so well. Your noises of pleasure only encouraged him more, and he swore to himself he wouldn’t cum until you did.

“Fuck! You’re so fucking wet and tight around me,” he said breathlessly.

“Mmm, feels so good, more!!” You shamelessly begged as he sped up his thrusts.

“God you’re so good at this. Taking me so well.” he groped your tit some more with his free hand, marveling in the way they bounced around from his steady and hard thrusts.

You moaned loudly and felt your orgasm approaching as the pleasure intensified. You reached down to rub your little nub and threw your head back, screwing your face up.

“I bet you’re so wet because you like being recorded, hm? You like being a filthy whore every once and a while?” He degraded you, but he was right, and God, it only turned you on more.

“Yeah everyone, look how she’s rubbing her clit and trying so hard to cum. How pathetic,” he spoke to the ‘audience’. The thought of someone else watching this was all you needed to finish. You came hard around him.

“Fuckkkk!!” You screamed and kept rubbing your nub quickly. You felt warm liquid coat your hand and splash around.

“Holy shit!! We’ve got a squirter!” Lo’ak said in awe and surprise, continuing his thrusts but they got sloppy as his orgasm overtook him too, not being able to hold back anymore at the sight of you squirting on him.

“Shit, I’m cumming!” He announced and came inside of you, somehow finding more room in there to put his cum.

Your combined sounds of pleasure and heavy breaths rang through the air. You were both a sticky mess from sweat and cum.

He lowered the camera and ended the video, laying it to the side as he collapsed on top of you. You were both trying to catch your breath.

“Well, that wasn’t what I had in mind for what I was going today,” he joked.

You snickered. “Yeah. You’re telling me.”

Taglist: @bambithewriter @neteyamssyulang @anemonelovesfiction @professional-yapper @plantgirliewholovespandora @etherynn @nonamevenus @ladykat37 @loakstahni @zafrinaxyz @xylianasblog @xstarsdiary @itchaboi-itchyboy @neteyamsoare @strongheartneteyam @inolaphoenix @erenjaegerwifee @vogueweb (lmk if you wanna be added or removed from taglist!)

[milkypompon]

pairing: Nathan Bateman x F!Reader

summary: Did you wake up in your boss' bed after a night together? Oops...

content: Fluff, morning after, talks of sex, sprinkles of smut

wc: 642

a/n: I am balls deep into Nathan Bateman... I'm rewatching Ex Machina and couldn't help but write for this pathetically genius man.

Main Masterlist

–

The bed underneath you was plush… too soft even.

You roll around in the sheets and still haven’t fallen off the single-sized mattress.

Oh, fuck. 

This was a king-sized mattress. 

And it wasn’t yours for that matter.

“You going to piss on my pillows next? C’mon, finish marking your territory.” A lilt of amusement hidden behind the gruff smirk catches you off-guard.

“I already did last night.” You throw said pillows at Nathan, he sidessteps each one. “Where’d you put my phone?”

Nathan chuckles and leans against the door frame, a towel wrapped low on his waist – freshly bathed with water droplets clinging to his chest. 

You knew that you’d be caught staring anyway, so you didn’t bother being discreet about it.

“Are you gonna take pictures to use as references for solo sessions?” He pushes up his glasses, making a show of it with his fingers. 

You rub the sleep out of your eyes, ineffectively stopping last night’s memories from seeping in. Those deliciously thick digits that plugged his cum back into your cunt, threatening to spill out to his annoyance. 

“Just give it back, Bateman. You and I got shit to do.”

Nathan pouts.

He fucking pouts.

You almost feel bad for wanting to leave but reality gave you a cold-wash of “you just slept with your boss”. 

“Quit thinking so hard, you’re gonna fry your brain.” He fishes your phone from god knows where because he certainly didn’t have pockets sewn into the towel.

“Was that between your ass cheeks?”

He tosses your phone back. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

The view is “not safe for work” to say the least. 

Your bare back is pressed against the bed, your stiffening nipples exposed to the cool air. The only thing covering you up right now was the thin sheet splayed across your pussy. (Damn rich people and their attraction to minimalism). 

But there was no point of decency now. He’d seen you on your knees and against the wall. 

There were a few places he’s yet to take you like his annoyingly neat desk that you wanted to mess up just for the sake of musing his workspace.

He said it’d be like straight out of a badly written porno. “Hot, billionaire boss fucks ditzy, sexy assistant on his desk during work hours.”

You rolled your eyes. “You sure the title shouldn’t be ‘assistant finds out her boss is actually the owner of PornHub’? How the hell did you come up with it so fast?”

His sweatpants were past his knees but he was rudely interrupted by a call with the board before he could pull your panties off. 

“Alright, sir. You’ve got a long day today.” You open up the Teams app, listing off his daily meetings. 

He plucks your phone and settles your head into the crook of his neck. “I knew you’d do this, pretending like it didn’t happen.”

“I can’t believe I slept with you.”

“I know, I was there.” 

You can’t help it when the corners of your lips curl at his stupid remark.

Nathan beams at drawing out a reaction. “Oh? Is that a smile I see?”

“No, you idiot.” You’re full-on grinning now, cheesing and all.

“Quit worrying about your pretty head, babe. You’re already working full-time at the facility, no one’s gonna know what you’re doing here. Besides, my dick is just a bonus.”

“Is your dick equivalent to a bar of gold? Because I’m gonna need that extra money once I get fired.”

“Now you’re just giving me ideas. Imagine that! A golden dildo molded from my cock.” He strokes his beard. “A true Midas’ touch.” 

You crane over to him, nudging your nose against his. “I’d never survive a day in your mind.”

“Well, you made it through a night with me, so I think it’s fair game.”

I'd love to hear your thoughts and my inbox is always open for requests or if you want to chat!

[lost-decade]

Mick/Esteban/Pierre

Le Mans weirdness with rancid vibes. I have no excuses for this, blame @freeuselandonorris for encouraging it.

(also have never written these drivers before and have no idea what I'm doing, so please be nice)

~

It's all over before 10pm, Nico climbing out of the car and a lot of heads in hands, the mood further dejected after the retirement of the sister car less than an hour earlier. Mick pats Nico on the shoulder, hugs the mechanics, but his imposter syndrome still bites hard. This isn't his home, really. He wants it to be, however temporarily that is.

Mick hates that sense of things interrupted, unfinished. Like his F1 career, or that time when he'd just turned fourteen and his dad walked in on him, hand down his joggers and the shrill fake moans of a girl getting railed, tinny from the speaker on his phone; pleasure turned to shame within seconds, fumbling with sticky fingers to close the Pornhub window.

He doesn't want to talk to anyone for a bit, and there's a little time before they'll debrief so he disappears to the motorhome with the intention of getting changed. His blood feels full of restless energy, thrumming beneath his skin with nowhere to go.

Esteban is there, waiting for him, loitering near the door, jacket zipped up high against the unseasonably chill temperature. There's moisture in the air, clouds low and close, obscuring the stars along with the kick of light from the circuit. The Ferris wheel turns somewhere in the distance. Mick can hear the grunt of the cars on the track and he craves something he can't put his finger on, an ugly thirst, a vicious desire that he has no place pushing onto Este.

*

"Let me make you feel better," Esteban says when the door is closed behind them. Mick takes his cap off and tosses it onto the table, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids, exhaling slowly. He can feel Esteban's fingertips at his waist. They know how to touch each other. It's been a while now, this. Them. Never discussed but always there, taken for granted almost, even with girlfriends who've come and gone.

It's been the two of them and it's been sweet, but tonight Mick feels like his sharp edges are too jagged to be smoothed, like all they'll do is cut. Este would let him be like that, lay himself open for whatever Mick wants. He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to shake those thoughts off. His hand finds Este's jaw, thumb pressing into the divot in his chin, holding him in place before he leans in, opening his mouth for a kiss.

*

Este is on his knees, drool spooling from his stretched lips down onto his t-shirt, adoring and ever giving. Mick thinks he might love him a little bit, but then he always thinks these thoughts when he's getting his dick sucked. He spreads his legs wider, close but distracted, leans his head back against the sofa cushions, his hand resting lightly on Esteban's head. Este swallows and almost there, Mick thinks. The knock on the door holds his orgasm at bay.

Ignore it, he mouths, sitting forward as Este pulls back, wiping his mouth, looking around wondering where he can hide.

The knuckles at the door are insistent. "Mick, it's Pierre."

"Don't go anywhere," Mick says, tucking himself back into his fireproofs, leaving the arms of his racesuit dangling around his waist as if they might obscure his erection. He opens the door a sliver.

Pierre looks up at him earnestly from the step, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He's been flirting with Mick since he got here a couple of days ago, casual little looks and lingering touches, praise. Mick is immune to a lot of things, but praise isn't one of them. Even if he suspects Pierre was only doing it to piss Este off. Well.

*

When the two of them walk through into the living area, Este is sitting on the sofa scrolling through his phone, shoulder turned away from them.

Pierre looks between the two of them, bounces on his heels, and Mick can't shake the feeling of being in the middle of a game he doesn't know all the rules of.

He doesn't like it. He's been powerless about enough things in his life.

"I just wanted to check you're o―” Pierre begins.

Mick raises his palm, as if he can push the bullshit back. "Este?" Esteban looks up from his phone, his eyes meeting Mick's. Mick searches his face, unsure even what he's expecting to find. Discomfort, maybe. A sign that he wants to leave. Esteban’s gaze flicks to Pierre and then back again, and Mick thinks he sees anything for you, even this.

"You can kiss him, if you want to," Esteban addresses Pierre, nonchalantly. Mick is mine to share, not yours to take.

Mick crowds Pierre back against the door, dick twitching in his underwear as he slips his tongue into his mouth. He hasn't kissed another guy except for Este. Other stuff, yeah. But kissing is just for Este. It feels like a betrayal, it makes him throb and leak. Pierre kisses sloppily, like he can't get enough, hands grabbing at Mick's arse trying to pull him closer.

When they break the kiss and Mick glances over at Esteban he's undone the buttons on his jeans, the ridge of his cotton covered cock visibly bursting out. Mick turns back to Pierre, traces a finger over his slick lips. “Now you can go and kiss your teammate.”

[lilyrizzy]

For the writing promot: yell 👀

The beginnings of a lesbian maxiel story bc…why not! cw: creepy straight guys & their slurs

“You two should kiss.”

It’s not the first time strangers have asked this of her and Max. It’s always guys too, hung up on the fantasy of two gay women being in the same room as each other, how it must mean they are entitled to a free show.

Daniel blames Pornhub and the videos she used to get herself off, hidden underneath her teenage bedcovers. All before she knew any better, before she knew where to find the stuff made for women.

Now, she just laughs like the good natured girl she is, while Max shoots the guy a death glare he can’t see.

The air of the bar is damp, sticky like you could cut it with a knife if you tried. Each breath she pulls into her lungs tastes a little like the tequila she’d merrily accepted and Max had refused, brought by the same assholes trying to hold their attention now. She might be a millionaire, but she’s not about to turn down free booze.

There are two of them this time, nicknamed Cocky and Cockless in her brain. She’s not going to bother remembering their names when she’s sure they know nothing about her beyond that she is a woman, a race car driver and bisexual.

“Maxy here isn’t my type,” she half shouts over the stready thrum of bass that is vibrating the floor underneath her feet. “As cute as she is.”

She shoots Max a wink, but it only has Max’s expression darkening and her eyes narrowing, all while Cocky, perched in the stool between them, grins. Cockless, stood besides Max, tries to get her attention by tugging at her elbow. She shrugs him off firmly, then harder when he tries again.

True to his name, Cocky is bolder. He leans further into Daniel’s space, not at all hiding his attempts to look down her top.

“I thought all the pretty girls were into the butch ones,” he says, a grin on his face as his eyes flick back up to hers, like they are in on this joke together. Like it’s not being made at both her and Max’s expense.

His words press against the same bruise that has been blooming across her chest since the day Max joined their team. Raw talent in the car and all cool confidence once you dragged her away from it. Everything Daniel both wanted and wanted to be.

It’s too much, too close to the bone, the same way the hand that comes to rest on her leg is, big and clammy, engulfing her kneecap.

“Daniel,” Max says, something deliciously demanding in her voice, like she wants this man’s hands away from Daniel’s body as much as Daniel does.

Daniel can’t make herself look at her, afraid she’ll give something away.

“Not me,” she forces past her teeth brightly.

Cockless has given up with Max, is instead flagging down a bartender to order another drink. Cockless, who seemingly only has eyes for Daniel, keeps laughing.

“And what is your type then, sweetheart,” he asks, and the condescension in the pet name is all it takes for her decide she’s done playing nice.

He’s running his fingertip of the hand not touching her across the rim of his glass. She’s sure he thinks is sexy, but in reality looks fucking stupid. She keeps the smile on her face and makes sure all her teeth are showing when she answers.

“Someone with a big cock,” she says sweetly, letting her eyes drag over his form. “But it looks like I’m not finding that here either.”

Finally she looks at Max who is still hovering at Cocky’s shoulder. Nodding at her, Daniel stands, shoving the creeps hand from her skin. Max doesn’t need words to know they are leaving, and instead simply follows as Daniel leads them away from the bar and back towards the teams booth booth. It’s filled with the foul mouthed Red Bull mechanics they call friends, that at least pretend not to imagine them fucking at all hours of the day.

“Hey!” The Cocky calls to their retreating back, and his sweaty fingertips slide against the bare skin of her shoulder for just a second as he reaches to stop her.

She turns, ready to tell him to fuck off, only to find Max already in his face.

“If you touch her again, I will break all of your fingers,” she tells him, like a promise. “And shove my cock down your throat.”

Cocky backs off, hands in the air as he mumbles something about, fucking dyke bitch.

Daniel hardly hears him over the pounding of her heart, the clenching of her cunt.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Kinktober Day 8̶ 7 - Fisting

Pairing: Dave York x wife f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut 18+ only!)

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: ……fisting. Also: mentions of watching porn, passing mentions of other kinks, use of restraints, Dave’s filthy mouth, degradation, PIV sex, rough sex, spanking, soft!Dave

Summary: You and your husband share a Pornhub account to share inspiration with each other. You also have your own, personal account where you can explore the kinks you’re too embarrassed to bring up to Dave. You must have been on the wrong account when you were taking a little “alone time” last night…

A/N: I AM POSTING THIS A DAY EARLY BECAUSE I'M GOING ON VACATION TOMORROW AND I SELFISHLY WANT TO SEE THE REACTION BEFORE I GO! THANK YOU to @leslie-lyman, @honestly-shite, and @pedropascalx for being my sounding boards for ALL of Kinktober, AKA letting me spam them with screenshots every couple of hours for the past two weeks. Credit for the concept of Dave mocking you by saying his own name goes to @ezrasbirdie, whose fic rare might have ruined my life. Thank you to @absurdthirst for the amazing Prompt List!!

Masterlist | Kinktober Masterlist

It was just a matter of time.

A matter of time before you fucked up.

It's too easy, really–you have two separate accounts for the same website. It was a matter of time before you used the wrong one.

It's simple: you and your husband, Dave York, share a Pornhub account–to share videos as inspiration, to explore kinks, to watch together when Dave is pulled away for a work trip, as he often is. You also have your own account, where you can indulge in things that are a bit more niche, videos and kinks that you might not want to reenact in real life, but still really turn you on when you watch them solo. You’ve never shared them with Dave; you feel self-conscious over some of your darker tastes, not knowing what your husband would think if he knew some of the things that you watch out of sheer curiosity. 

You must have been on the wrong account last night when you were taking a little “alone time” with one such video and your vibrator.

All Dave had done was to send you a screenshot via text of the offending video in your ‘liked’ page the next day while you were both at work. No accompanying words, nothing. You don't respond, too flustered and embarrassed to acknowledge your slip-up while in the office, trying to focus on your job and not the fact that Dave knows exactly what you were doing last night while he was working late. 

That evening, you walk in the door with your heart in your throat. Dave is at the sink, loading the dishwasher, when he turns and fixes you with a look that is equal parts amused and challenging. 

You know what the first words out of his mouth are going to be before he says them.

“Extreme… fisting… compilation…” Dave murmurs, letting each word hang in the air before he moves onto the next.

“Dave, I–”

“I didn’t know you were into that,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know if I’m into it–”

“You don’t know?” Dave parrots, pouting his lips mockingly. “You must like it a little, considering you touched yourself to it last night,” he muses. “How many times did you cum?”

“How do you know I was–”

“How. Many. Times,” he repeats, lowering his voice and moving close to you to speak the question directly in your ear while you feel the heat of his body against your chest. His breath on your neck is causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. 

"Th-three," you breathe, voice wavering. 

"Three…" Dave muses, pretending to think. "I think you might like it."

"I-I like to watch it," you protest. "I don't know if I'd like to actually–" you trail off.

"There's only one way to find out," Dave rumbles. "And what a coincidence–you're going to find out tonight."

Dave's lips finally meet your skin for the first time that night in a tantalizingly soft brush to your neck, contrasting starkly to his words.

"Dave," you whisper, your neck instinctively craving up to allow him more space, leaning into him as you have done for years in his embrace. 

"Shhh," he hushes, in an imitation of being soothing. "I was gonna make you wait until after dinner but I'm done with the pretense of waiting," Dave says darkly. "Get your ass upstairs."

—

Dave might have been unwilling to wait to get you upstairs and naked in your bed, but now that he has you here, he's taking his fucking time. 

You writhe under the ministrations of a little bullet vibrator with your wrists tightly secured over your head by Dave’s belt. He edges you viciously, building you up over and over just to wrench it away at the last second until you are dripping and close to tears. 

"Dave–please, Dave, fuck–"

"Tell me what you want," Dave demands.

"Dave," you whine.

"Daaave," he mocks quietly. "That's not going to work. Say the words."

You bite the inside of your cheek, irritated at his goading and hell-bent on being a brat in retribution. Not that you have any semblance of power, here–already tied to the bed and dripping onto the sheets.

"I-I want you to put your fist inside me," you finally say, cheeks burning with humiliation. "I want you to make me cum from it."

Dave pretends to be surprised, his eyebrows shooting up exaggeratedly at your words. 

"Really!" he says with an exaggerated tone. "Do the ladies on the HOA board know what a depraved little slut you are?"

"Dave, please," you murmur, voice quieter as you give in to his gentle degradation.

"I'll give you what you want," Dave agrees, "if you tell me what other videos you have on that other account of yours."

You blanch. "What?"

"Don't get shy on me now, not when I'm about to stick my whole hand in this perfect cunt."

You press your lips together. You aren't just going to give him what he wants, just like that. It isn't fun unless you fight back a little. 

In retaliation, Dave brings the little vibrator to your clit, edging you toward an orgasm yet again. Just before you fall, it's gone, and you sob in frustration.

"Tell me and I'll let you cum," Dave teases. 

You swallow. "F-Fuck machines," you admit reluctantly. 

Dave slides one finger into your aching cunt as a reward. "Good," he murmurs. "What else?"

You bite your lip. "Double penetration," you squeak. "Um, h-hypnosis."

One of Dave's eyebrows twitches subtly. He wasn't expecting that one; that had been a surprise. 

"What else," Dave says gently, continuing to pump you slowly with one finger. 

"That's… that's about it," you say vaguely. 

The finger leaves you, and you groan. 

"Let's try that again, shall we?" Dave says. "I've spent hours interrogating people for information in ways you will never know about. It's cute how you think you can lie to me."

You shiver slightly at the mention of Dave's job. He doesn't tell you much–he can't. For one, you don't have the security clearance, but the biggest reason that side of him will always be behind walls to you is that the Dave that you know, the one who loves you and speaks to you softly, who enjoys watching space documentaries and fishing and who you've seen crawling on the floor with the two girls squealing on his back–that Dave–is the one he wants, no, needs you to see. 

You do know, however, that your husband is a dangerous man, someone who has done unspeakable things in the name of his country, obeying orders to kill without question. He doesn’t want you anywhere near that part of him, and while the idea that Dave York is just as deft with a gun as he is applying Hello Kitty bandages to scraped knees or fucking you until you forget your own name makes a shiver of excitement run down your spine, you are more than happy to put that Dave into a neat little box that will never be opened by you. 

"Dave," you whine in protest. 

Dave doesn't react, just stares at your vulnerable, restrained form below him and waits. 

"N-Non-con," you mumble with a grimace, no longer meeting his eyes. 

He's going to think you're insane. 

Dave, for his part, cocks his head to the side and doesn't comment further–no more gentle mocking, no more humiliation. He wordlessly unbuckles the belt securing your wrists, freeing them, and slides off the bed, giving your stomach a playful kiss as he does so, and retrieves a bottle of lube from the nightstand. 

"You're going to need to tell me if it's too much," Dave says, his tone far softer than it had been before. 

"I will," you whisper. 

You watch as Dave pours an obscene amount of lube on his hand–far more than you normally use. He holds your gaze with a smirk as he coats his hand, including his thumb, as if he's willing you to picture all of it inside you. Then, he upturns the bottle directly above your pussy and lets it drip down, and you squeak at the slightly cool sensation. 

Dave holds your eyes as he slides one slick finger into your cunt, quickly moving to a second. The third is always a stretch, and you let out a little whimper as you feel him slide another finger into you, thrusting gently as you adjust. 

"I don't know how this became a kink of yours," Dave remarks, his voice playful. "When this little cunt has this much trouble taking three."

He curls his fingers up and rubs against your g-spot and your whimper turns into a sudden cry of pleasure. 

"Do you think you'll be able to take all of it?" Dave murmurs. "Are you going to stretch to fit me without completely breaking apart?"

You feel like that’s kind of a rhetorical question, but you nod anyway, looking up at your husband with a mixture of trust and trepidation.

“Of course you will,” Dave agrees. “Because you’re my perfect girl, aren’t you?”

His tone of voice is smug and arrogant, but the praise–and the affection in his eyes as he teases you–makes you preen..

"Aren't you," Dave repeats, arching one eyebrow and dropping the smirk and giving you a stern pout. Of course–he expects you to answer.

"Yes," you say quickly.

Only then does he begin to slide his fourth finger into your pussy with the other three. 

It's a lot, with those thick fingers of his–but you're pretty sure he's had four inside you before, and you know you can take it. You can take it, you can take more. 

Already, he's creating so much pressure inside you, curling all of his fingers against your wall and rubbing back and forth as he works you open. There's so much pressure on your g-spot already that you think you might cum. Your hips rise off of the bed slightly as you clench and grind against his hand.

"No, no," Dave tuts, easing off with his fingers. "Not until it's all in there."

You nod rapidly, trying desperately to be good for your husband and not cum until he says. You relax your hips, willing them not to lock into place before Dave says it's okay.

Dave hunches down over you, propping himself up on one elbow, his hand gently cupping the back of your neck as his thumb starts to tease around your entrance.

"I want you to look at me," Dave says, his voice low and quiet. 

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and you feel the pinch of his thumb sliding into your cunt to join the rest of his fingers. 

"That's it," Dave rumbles softly. "Fuck, look at you."

His hand keeps moving, entering you even further, and your body instinctively tries to shy away, to close up, but Dave shushes you quietly. 

"Relax," he says. "Breathe. You need to relax for me, honey. You can take it, let me in."

Your chest heaves with effort as you try to do what Dave says. He doesn't stop; his hand keeps inching further inside of you, so slowly that he's barely moving, but you can feel the change inside you until he hits the very end of you. 

"Dave," you breathe. "Dave, Dave, Dave–"

"I know," he murmurs, his lips hovering just above your face as he watches every little expression flit across your face. "My perfect girl, you're taking all of me, aren't you? Greedy little slut. You need my whole fucking hand? I'll give it to you. Knowing you, you'll beg for it in your ass next, won't you?"

You press your lips together and whine, shaking your head 'no.'

Dave chuckles. "Aw, what's wrong, sweetheart? Is this too much? Is having my fist in your cunt too much for you?"

You quickly shake your head again. God, you need to cum. There's so much pressure on your g-spot, but it's not enough, you need him to rub back and forth, you need–

"I guess it's too much for this tiny little pussy," Dave mocks, "since you can't even use your words. I guess I'll have to stop–"

"No!" you cry immediately, making Dave laugh outright. 

"Then tell me," he demands. "Tell me to fuck this perfect cunt with my fist."

"F-fuck me with your fist…" you say weakly.

Dave's hand around the back of your neck squeezes ever so slightly. "That's not what I told you to tell me. C'mon," he teases. "Apparently you watch some depraved shit online and get off on it. Surely you can tell me to fuck this perfect little cunt."

"Fuck my cunt with–"

Dave arches his eyebrow, and the pressure on the sides of your neck increases. 

"Fuck my perfect cunt with your fist, Dave," you try again. "Please. Fuck my perfect cunt with your fist until I cum, please, I need it. I need to cum."

"So pretty when you beg, sweetheart," Dave says darkly, and his hand starts to move in and out of you. "You do have a perfect cunt, and you should say it. Be fucking proud of it. Fuck, it's squeezing my hand so tight, you know that? It's given me two little girls and here it is, still barely able to take me."

Dave sits up, both to see the mess he's making of you and for better leverage.  His fingers–all of them– expertly find your g-spot and start to rub back and forth.

"And now it's gonna squirt for me, isn't it?" he continues. "This perfect cunt is gonna get me all wet. Say it," he barks. 

“It’s–I’m gonna–”

“No,” Dave corrects. “‘My perfect cunt is gonna get you all wet.’ Say it.”

“My–my perfect cunt is gonna get–get you–”

The dam breaks, and your back arches off of the bed with the force of it. Everything clamps down, the overwhelming pressure of Dave’s fist finally breaking something inside of you. You cum harder than you’ve ever cummed in your life, thanks to Dave’s thick fingers pressing up. Your release splashes out around his fist, soaking the bed, the insides of your things, and Dave.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Dave groans. “Good fucking girl.”

He withdraws his fist and you’re left empty, a wet, trembling mess on the bed.

“I’ve gotta have you,” Dave says as he fumbles with his pants, haste and desperation coloring his words. “Tell me I can fuck you.” He’s lost his edge of command, that controlled, sometimes clinical way in which he speaks to you. The words are a demand, yes, but if you close your eyes, it sounds like he’s begging.

Your cunt is still twitching pitifully as you nod. Somehow, after all of that, you want more. You always want more of Dave. 

Dave doesn’t answer, just yanks his cock out of his tight boxer briefs and thrusts home, sliding effortlessly into you from your previous release. He fucks you roughly, his cock hammering on something that even his fist couldn’t reach. His fist was brutal, yes, but something about the way his hips snap into yours is ruthless. Your head rolls back and you surrender to the feeling, moaning loudly into the room.

“Fucking insatiable, aren’t you?” Dave teases. “My fist wasn’t enough for you, now you want my cock?”

“Yes,” you pant, barely able to get the words out over the force of his thrusts.

“Then take it,” Dave gravels through clenched teeth. “Take it, fucking–take it for me, take it–” 

You’re going to cum again–you can feel it. All you need is a little more, a different angle, his hand on your clit, something.

“Dave,” you cry out desperately. “Dave, I need–fuck, I need–”

“Turn over,” Dave barks. “Ass in the air.” He pulls out abruptly and slaps your hip a couple of times for emphasis. You scramble, getting on your knees, your chest pressing into the bed, presenting yourself to him. His hands grip the flesh of your ass roughly as he punches back into you, making you wail into the covers. 

“You wanna cum, huh?” Dave teases. “You always cum so fast like this, don’t you?”

A sharp spank on one cheek when you don’t answer. “Don’t you?”

“Yes!” you squeal in response. “Yes, Dave–fuck, it’s–I’m gonna–”

Another rough spank on the other cheek sends you higher, so close to the path of no return that–

“Again,” you beg your husband. “Again, again–”

Dave indulges you, giving your ass a few more sharp slaps that you know are going to make you red. Good. It never fails to cause you to fall, and this time is no exception. You sob into the bed as you cum again, prolonged by Dave’s punishing thrusts. 

“Good girl,” Dave murmurs, lost in pleasure. “Good girl, perfect–” His hips stutter as he cums with a deep groan of your name. 

A switch flips, and Dave’s grip on your hip becomes a light caress, a comforting touch as he gently withdraws from your aching cunt. You pitch forward onto your stomach with a sated sigh and roll over on your back to look up at Dave.

“Fuck, the sheets,” you murmur tiredly as your leg catches on the wet material. 

“In a minute,” Dave rumbles softly. “Come here.”

He moves to the other side of the bed and pulls you with him, folding you into his body and cradling you in his warmth. When you’d first met him, you didn’t imagine that Dave York was much of a cuddler after sex. You’d been proven wrong again and again, but even as the years have passed, your heart still soars with affection when the man who faces the rest of the world with hard eyes and clenched jaw positively melts for you. 

Dave hums softly in contentment and buries his face in your neck, nipping lightly at the skin.

“Extreme… fisting… compilation,” he murmurs playfully into your skin.

“Stop it,” you scold, rocking your hips against him.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Dave asks quietly. “About the videos you’re apparently too embarrassed to watch on our account. I didn’t know.”

You suck a breath in. “I don’t know,” you respond. “I guess because I’m just… exploring, you know? There’s lots of stuff that I like to watch, but I don’t think I’d like to do it in real life.”

Dave hums thoughtfully, and you can feel the vibration on your skin. “Then why don’t we watch them together, and you can tell me what parts you do like,” he suggests. “I want to know this stuff about you.”

“Even the weird shit?” you ask quietly. 

“Especially the weird shit,” your husband answers with a smile.

*

[odinsblog]

Andrew was entering his third month of unemployment when he sat down at his computer and opened the inbox of his LinkedIn account. He’d received a response to a query he’d sent off four days after his friend-turned-manager walked him into a conference room swimming with sunlight, smelling of cologne and the faintest hint of perfume left behind by a group of attorneys who’d recently vacated the space after a five-hour meeting.

“I’m sorry, man,” Colin Perkins had said. Andrew’s eyes glided to the glass conference table, landing on the silver tray holding a molehill of bagels. He imagined they must be stale by now, having been left there uncovered in the icy office air.

Someone had planted the pointed end of a white plastic knife in an open container of chive-and-jalapeño cream cheese. It brought to mind the moon landing; all that was missing was a tiny American flag. A laugh trudged up his throat, but he disguised it as a cough.

“I told you,” Colin continued, raking his hands over his manicured Afro, “that the last to hire would be the first to go.”

A month earlier, seventeen women and two men had accused the CEO of the company of sexual misconduct. That news had plummeted the stock. The layoffs followed. Andrew had witnessed dozens of employees being escorted by security from the building like criminals. Now it was his turn.

Andrew nodded, placed a comforting hand on Daniel’s shoulder, and squeezed. The crisp cotton of Daniel’s shirt felt cool beneath his palm. “It’s okay, man, I understand. Don’t sweat it.”

He’d spent that first week revamping his résumé, calling friends and old colleagues, people who might know of a job opportunity at their own place of employment or elsewhere. He’d never had a LinkedIn account, but took the time to set one up. To conserve the little bit of savings he had, Andrew dropped his gym membership and went back to drinking tap water instead of the bottled Evian he loved. He gave up Starbucks coffee and the expensive cabernet sauvignon he purchased by the case.

By week three, he was spending his days on the couch, dressed in boxer shorts and sweat socks. He’d stopped opening the blinds and only went outside to empty the garbage. He whiled away the hours playing video games, and watching Netflix and Pornhub. Oftentimes, he went days without brushing his teeth.

When his mother called to check on him, Andrew lied, claiming he had several interviews lined up. When his father took the phone into another room to ask if he needed money, Andrew assured him that he was fine on the financial front, even though he wasn’t. He’d made up his mind to sell his Shelby Mustang before he took a dime from his parents. That was a big decision because he loved that car more than he’d ever loved any woman.

The day he opened the e-mail, the panic had just started to set in. He could feel it creeping along the back of his neck, like the soft scuttle of caterpillar legs.

From: OBF, INC.

To: Andrew Jamison

Dear Mr. Jamison,

We found your resume to be very interesting and believe that you would be the perfect addition to our dynamic team of Client Liaisons.

PAID TRAINING!

Affordable benefits for you, your spouse, and/or children after 90 days!

Opportunities to advance within!

Hourly, overtime, and tremendous bonus opportunities!

If you love helping others, then you will love working for OBF, INC.

OBF, INC. wants to talk to you now! To set up an interview TEXT OBF51893.

Liaison was just a fancy French word for customer service agent. Well, that was his skill set. Andrew was an expert at assisting people.

He texted the number and received an instant response that directed him to call a telephone number and enter his personal code: 1032.

An automated voice offered him two available interview dates. He was instructed to press 1 for the first date and 2 for the second. The mechanical voice told him that he would receive a call advising him where the interview would take place.

It all seemed very clandestine. Andrew was cynical, but his desperation outweighed his skepticism.

A day later, he received a call from a woman with a Southern drawl . . . Georgia, Alabama, Texas? He couldn’t quite pinpoint where she hailed from, but listening to her speak conjured visions of sweet tea and fireflies. She asked for his full government name and the code he’d received via text message. There was a pause, two clicks, and then the syrupy voice asked if he had a pen available. He did. After she’d rattled off the address, she wished him good luck. There were a few more clicks and then the line went dead.

He walked into the lobby of the forty-story office building and was struck by the contemporary opulence of the space. Marble floors, potted palms that towered eight feet into the air, white leather sofas, and a slick-looking Louboutin-red reception desk.

Andrew presented his license to the security guard and was given a name tag, which he clipped to the lapel of his ash-gray jacket. He was told to go to the eighteenth floor.

While waiting for the elevator, he perused the list of companies listed on a plaque mounted to the wall. OBF, Inc. was nowhere to be found.

He smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the elevator. On the eighteenth floor, smack outside of the elevator door, was a sheet of lined legal paper taped haphazardly to the wall. Scrawled on its face in black marker was: This Way to OBF, INC. Below that was an arrow.

He started down the hall. A man the color of cedar and as tall as an NBA player speed-walked past him, mumbling to himself. Andrew thought he looked dazed, as if he’d just received news that a loved one had passed away.

“Good morning,” Andrew murmured.

The man turned eyes as wide as saucers on Andrew. He opened his mouth and muttered something that Andrew wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The elevator doors slid open just as Andrew leaned in and asked, “Uhm, sorry, brother, but did you say run?”

The man leaped into the elevator, pressed his spine against the back wall, and fixed his eyes on the glass numbers above the closing doors.

Andrew stood blinking at his reflection in the chrome elevator doors. After a moment, he shrugged and continued down the hallway where he came upon a second handwritten sign directing him to turn left at the women’s bathroom. He rounded a corner and found himself staring at eleven men seated in folding chairs. They all looked up from their iPhones and Androids. Andrew nodded and headed toward the pretty blonde seated behind a metal desk.

“Good morning,” she smiled. “Name?”

“Andrew Jamison.”

“Okay, Mr. Jamison, please take a seat. Mrs. Americus will be with you shortly.”

He scrutinized his fellow applicants. They were all black men save for the one white guy with a man-bun who was called in as soon as Andrew sat down. Man-bun wasn’t in there long. In less than five minutes, cheeks flushed and cursing under his breath, he stormed across the reception area and out of sight.

Andrew clenched his jaw and made eye contact with another man across the room from him. He imagined the unease in the man’s eyes mirrored his own uncertainty.

“Andrew Jamison, Mrs. Americus will see you now. Just through that door.”

The door opened to a large office filled with cubicles and desks, manned by women tapping away on typewriters or murmuring into the handsets of—

Andrew slowed his gait.

Are those rotary telephones and, wait, Royal typewriters?

As Andrew gawked, a large man with a mustache as thick has a shoe brush appeared before him. Andrew glanced up and then quickly shifted his gaze away from the brawny man’s left eyelid, which was weighed down with a sty the size of a dime.

“In there,” the man huffed, aiming a chubby finger at a closed door not more than five feet from where they stood.

The office was as small as a janitor’s closet. And dark.

The lone window on the far left wall faced the shadowy back of a department store. Metal file cabinets lined the walls; some of the drawers were open, revealing manila folders bulging with papers. He could see, even in the muddy darkness of the room, a layer of dust atop the cabinets. Hanging on the walls were at least twenty framed photographs of people, all of whom were black.

The air was rife with the scent of cigarette smoke.

Andrew remembered people smoking at their desks when he went to visit his mother at her office job when he was young. Once, on a flight to Detroit with his grandmother, he stood at the back of the plane waiting to use the bathroom, and found himself engulfed in a cloud of smoke billowing from the cigarettes of three passengers.

He couldn’t recall the exact year cities around the country began banning smoking in bars and restaurants, but he was supremely aware that smokers had to be at least four hundred feet away from the entrance of any building if they wanted to light up.

Yet here was this woman, puffing away like it was 1975. Andrew eyed the near-empty box of Winstons and then the woman. She was robust—a meat-and-potatoes sort of gal, with doughy cheeks and large blue eyes. Her sun-bleached blond hair fanned back from her face—a style made famous by the eighties icon Farrah Fawcett. Her lips were slathered in tangerine-colored lipstick. The same color rung the filters of a dozen long-dead Winston butts heaped in the black ceramic ashtray. Andrew thought, If she’s going for clown instead of glamour, well, bull’s-eye!

Ornate rings twinkled on seven of her ten fingers, the rose-gold chain she wore around her neck dribbled down her chest and disappeared into her cleavage. She looked to be in her midfifties.

“Good morning, Mr. Jamison. Please have a seat.” Her eyes remained glued to the sheet of paper clutched in her hands. Andrew assumed it was his résumé.

He sat down.

“You graduated from Brown University?”

“Y-yes, I did. I graduated summa cum laude in 1990.”

Her desk was cluttered with newspaper clippings; stacks of aging yellowed papers, and dated fashion magazines. Andrew’s eyebrows climbed. Was that Marcia from the seventies sitcom The Brady Bunch on the cover of that Glamour magazine?

Andrew chuckled to himself. This had to be an elaborate joke. Someone was putting him on. His eyes ranged around the office in search of a concealed camera.

“Impressive,” she said finally, looking him directly in the eye. “Do you have a wife?”

“S-sorry?”

“Are you married, Mr. Jamison?”

“No, I’m not.”

She searched his face. “Are you gay?”

Andrew bristled. “Mrs. Americus, I don’t think you’re legally allowed to ask me that question.”

She smirked.

“It’s a yes-or-no question, Mr. Jamison. I know it’s unusual, but believe me, for this position I would need to know.”

His rent was due tomorrow and then again in thirty more days. His savings were dwindling. “No, I’m not gay.”

“Do you have children?”

“One daughter, she’s twenty-two years old.”

“Do you have a good relationship with your daughter? With the mother?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Americus glanced at his résumé. “Perfect.” She reached for the dying cigarette and brought it to her lips. “And according to your application, you’ve never been arrested. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we will be doing a background check.”

“Understood.”

“Do you have any bad habits? Do you use narcotics?”

“No ma’am.”

“Any . . . um . . . undesirable recreational activities?”

“Undesirable?”

“Porn? Well, not just porn. Kiddie porn.”

Andrew’s mouth fell open.

“No judgment, Mr. Jamison. Again, I just need to know.”

“No, I do not watch kiddie porn,” Andrew spat.

“Good!” she exclaimed, drumming her fingers on the desk. “Let me tell you the specifics of the job . . .”

Some of the faces behind the glass frames looked familiar. Again Andrew found himself squinting. Was that Omarosa? He pitched forward in his chair.

Mrs. Americus stopped talking and followed his gaze. “Um, yes,” she spouted. “That is who you think it is. She’s been one of our best recruits.”

Andrew swallowed.

Mrs. Americus stubbed out her cigarette and laced her fingers under her chin. “Some of our liaisons work directly with government agencies. That’s a promotion of sorts. Of course, before you can be assigned to the big house—I mean the White House—you’d first have to prove yourself out in the field.” She giggled. “In the field. You get it? It’s a double entendre.”

Andrew’s mouth went dry.

She twisted around in the chair and pointed to a photograph of a pair of middle-aged women standing shoulder to shoulder, each holding a red MAGA baseball cap. “Those ladies are Diamond and Silk. Do you know them?”

Andrew shot out up from the chair. For a moment, he thought his knees would buckle. “What does OBF stand for?”

Mrs. Americus reached for the pack of cigarettes. “OBF stands for One Black Friend.”

“One Black Friend?”

“Yes. You see, in these troubling times, times where so many people are labeling white people as racist, we need black people to stand up for us—to have our backs, as your people are fond of saying. Sometimes, Mr. Jamison, a God-fearing, good white person may be accused of a crime or some other offense perpetrated against a person of color, and when the accused does not have a person of color in his circle, it looks bad. The public may see him . . . or her, as a racist simply because their circle is . . . white. Lily.

“And that’s wrong. Not having black friends does not make a white person racist by default. Anyway,” she waved her hand, “that’s where OBF comes in. We provide that one black friend. That one black friend introduces doubt, and more often than not, that doubt diminishes a large percentage of the negative impact our clients might face.”

Andrew just stared.

“Oh, Mr. Jamison, don’t look so shocked. This practice has been around for centuries.” She pointed to the far wall near the window. “You see that guy there? He was actually the inspiration for this company.”

Andrew peered at the photograph. “Who is he?”

“Joe Oliver.”

“Joe Oliver?”

“Yeah, Joe Oliver. You don’t remember him? Joe Oliver, George Zimmerman’s one black friend.” Mrs. Americus raised a black ceramic coffee mug to her lips and sipped. The red decal on the side of the mug read: Black Tears.

Andrew’s stomach lurched, perspiration beading across his forehead. “This is some kind of joke, right?”

“Oh, I assure you this is not a joke and I am very serious. As serious as a heart attack. Is that how the saying goes? As serious as a heart attack?”

Andrew started toward the door.

“Wait, Mr. Jamison. Look here.” She pointed at a photograph hanging above the row of filing cabinets. “This is another one of our liaisons. Since he’s been working for us, he’s paid off his student loans and I understand that he’s just recently purchased a Cadillac.”

Andrew followed her index finger to the photo of a grinning black man holding a Blacks for Trump sign above his head like a trophy.

“Shall we talk about salary?”

The lights flickered.

He thought, Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is a nightmare.

“Andrew? I can see you’re having a hard time processing all of this. But really, it’s not as uncommon as you might think. We live in America, this is a capitalist country, and we monetize everything. Everything.”

Andrew couldn’t remember reaching for the doorknob, but suddenly he was stumbling through the reception area.

He fled down the corridor, rounded the first corner and then the next. A slight man the color of honeyed milk stepped from the elevator. He wore a yellow dress shirt with a red bow tie. His dark-blue khakis were flooded just enough to offer a wink of his orange-and-navy argyle socks.

Upon Andrew’s frantic approach, the startled stranger stepped swiftly out of his path. Andrew didn’t make eye contact. He jabbed at the elevator button until the doors slid open.

Weeks later, Andrew was seated in a truck-stop diner with his fork poised over a plate of scrambled eggs and corned beef hash.

The mounted television was tuned to Fox News. The anchor reported that yet another young black man had been gunned down by a vigilante, another Good Samaritan, named Christopher Parks.

Christopher Parks was heading home from his job as a sanitation man when he spotted young Daniel Latham sitting in Starbucks, dozing over his law textbooks. Parks entered the establishment, woke Latham with a tap to his shoulder, and asked if he lived in the area. According to eyewitnesses, Latham replied that he did in fact live in the neighborhood. Parks demanded to see Latham’s ID and was met with laughter. The law student gathered his belongings and stood to leave—rather menacingly, one eyewitness reported.

That was when Christopher Parks pulled his weapon and fired. The stunned Latham, still laughing, crumpled into his chair and pressed his hand over the whole in his heart. It wasn’t until he saw the blood that the smile slipped from his lips and he began to cry.

The cops were called, but not an ambulance. Well, not immediately.

The police shackled Latham to the chair and took Parks to the police station for questioning. The woman behind the counter gave Parks a high five and a tall Caffè Mocha to go.

By the time an ambulance arrived, Daniel Latham was dead, having bled out all over his take-home final exam.

In the days that followed, it was revealed that Daniel Latham had several unpaid parking tickets and was thrice fined for not scooping his dog’s poop. Not only that—he was also a practicing Buddhist who supported a woman’s right to choose.

A search of Latham’s apartment unearthed a well-worn copy of Alex Haley’s The Autobiography of Malcolm X, which was on his nightstand alongside Jay-Z’s Decoded. This discovery was further evidence that Latham was no angel.

Laura Ingraham looked directly into the camera and told her viewers that Christopher Parks was a hero, a polite and well-spoken man who had been raised by his father after his mother died from breast cancer when he was just three years old. Yes, as a youth, Christopher had been suspended from school for fighting, and as a young man he’d beaten a girlfriend with a pipe. Later, when he was in his early thirties, he’d threatened to castrate his boss—a black man old enough to be his grandfather. All of that behavior, Laura Ingraham said, was directly connected to the trauma of losing a mother at such a tender age.

She paused, and in that moment her entire face pulsed with empathy. “That said,” she continued, “Al Sharpton, along with the Black Lives Matter terrorist organization, have labeled Christopher Parks a racist and are calling for his arrest.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Earlier today, I had the pleasure of speaking with Christopher’s longtime best friend, Andrew Jamison . . .”

Andrew lowered his fork, reached for his shades, and slipped them onto his face.

—OBF, Inc., a short story by Bernice L. McFadden

[hiddenwashington]

                                       we are the april fools

welcome to the brain cell of the admin team working! we love a good bit so, here is a compilation of our bullshit for your memeing pleasure. enjoy!

**tw for nsfw, drug mention, alcohol mention, swearing

‘ fuck off you fucking gremlin ’

‘ mister mistoffelees is my cat boyfriend ’

‘ one is a kink, one is a crime ’

‘ i live for chaos you gotta feed me ’

‘ i’ll continue being an asshole for your amusement ’

‘ i’m ready, bring on the anxiety ’

‘ hey bro, what the fuck ’

‘ we’ll scar ourselves for valentines day ’

‘ and then she wrote me a novel about his cocaine addiction ’

‘ sponsored by ritz cheese crackers, absolute shit ’

‘ you have no legacy, your legacy is to be disappointed all the time ’

‘ you’re like some sad soccer mom that came for the wine instead of your kids soccer game ’

‘ karen can choke i would never forget the sangria ’

‘ your moms dead, i’m your problem now ’

‘ it is i, the mullet of your dreams ’

‘ you cannot mention pornhub! this is why you’re not hr ’

‘ i’m on the clock to knock your lights out ’

‘ i’m livin la tiddy loca ’

‘ she was hot, i don’t know what to tell you ’

‘ righting the world and the economy one karen at a time ’

‘ you can fight my brain and my anxiety sis we’re having ✨a terrible time✨ ’

‘ i’m on it drag that bitch to denny’s i’ll take her ass out ’

‘ can god stop vibe checking me ’

��� today i learned that cocaine could be an antidepressant if the government weren’t cowards ’

‘ i had five shots of espresso, even god can’t stop me ’

‘ ted bundy is up first i will square up ’

‘ one day i will have the pleasure of going to hell and murdering freud ’

‘ i will not face consequences for my actions. you can not make me ’

‘ i can accept that i have a flaw or two. that’s it though, just two ’

‘ i know you try very hard, but you are very stupid ’

‘ let’s go straight, a thing we’ve never said before in this groupchat ’

‘ you better be ready to sleep with moth man - hi dad! ’

‘ that’s like the saddest uwu i’ve heard in my life ’

‘ i just want the thrill of rejecting a god ’

‘ you really think you could take on the kool-aid man and take no damage??? ’

‘ i don’t have a foot fetish, i’m just autistic ’

‘ i haven’t even learned multiplication, how am i supposed to know what a pyramid scheme is? ’

‘ do i look sexy while dying? ’

‘ have you been watching too much youtube? ’

‘ fucking ipad kids, man ’

‘ i can be sane about this i promise but not today ’

‘ i’m a catch and i can also sleep with a younger man ’

‘ how do you milk an oat ’

‘ fuck my dad ’

‘ sometimes you just need to start swinging ’

‘ i just watched a cat girl walk out of thin air in a starbucks ’

‘ isn’t that that furry thing people are into ’

‘ i’m gonna go on The Google and see if i can figure anything out ’

‘ am i high too? ’

‘ fuck off bambi ’

‘ since there was no warning and i make the rules here ’

‘ you’ll go where i say you’ll go ’

‘ does a - mother fucker ’

‘ gonna play chase the emo ’

‘ we love biting dilfs….? ’

‘ optimistic nihilism, right? none of us matter ’

‘ it’s kinda cringe to be kidnapped ’

‘ you rolled a 5, stfu this rabbit’s coming to brand you ’

‘ is he immune to KNIVES?? ’

‘ alright – now to kill this dad ’

‘ if you think garfield is going to stand against me in court, you’re out of your fucking mind ’

‘ no offense but you have like no mom vibes ’

‘ i think i got threatened by a furry ’

‘ speak of the cat lady and she shall appear ’

**shotguns frappuccino** ‘ there’s many ways to drink a drink ’

‘ these hands are magic, baby ’

‘ are you saying naruto is jesus?? ’

‘ your pride is going to get us killed ’

‘ you look like you could fit under a bush ’

‘ y’all test me… ’

‘ it’s your reward for being a dumb bitch ’

‘ i am SO GLAD you didn’t get vored by a cloud ’

‘ did you get so high/drunk you circled back to sober? ’

‘ try to crowd surf the third graders! ’

‘ some things are better off unknown , the phrase will haunt me but… ’

‘ we’ve summoned satanic tennessee ’

‘ what’s a chakra? i didn’t bring anything with me ’

‘ hey lady, did you give me crack ? ’

‘ there are no nutrients in my body, only spite! ’

‘ i’m here to be fun and cute! not smart! ’ 

‘ i don’t joke about setting timers ’

‘ eggs aren’t meat... yet ’

‘ this is being run by a bisexual maniac ’

‘ maybe nessie’s lonely, maybe nessie needs to get laid! ’

‘ biting is my kink ‘

‘ don’t worry, i will slowly eat away at you until you are a husk of a person ’

[introtofa]

W E E K 5✦

✦ CLEARING THE AIR

Can I have an opinion? Yes. Write in first person? Yes.

Do I need references? It's a case by case basis.

When writing, you may be drawing upon not-just your own practice.

For those cases, you'll want to cite. You can choose different reference methods (cite, footnote or bibliography) but be consistent.

Overall, they're looking for: CONSIDERED, QUALITY WRITING.

Writing about YOU! How you came to be expressing what you are in the studio!

Your influences! Story! Personal context culminating into your art!

[as long as its not substituting word count] You can add drawings and maps - inspiration map?

Links for moving image works are also possible.

You can bring over some of the same references as studio; be transparent, and re-write.

Drafts in the hand in? Save your drafts, but don't hand them in.

✦ HOLLY WALKER provides some insight.

Not a 'writer' - make art so I don't have to write. I tell stories, reflect on memories, sing songs, gossip, scroll Tumblr... How can personality and the body become present in the writing. The body of work, my body of work.

Her nude works ended up getting uploaded to Pornhub. How can I engage a viewer/reader in a performance through a page, what demands can I make while my body is absent? No passive bystanders. Figuring out how to find research, practices and theorists that support and validate my voice, positionally and writing 'style'. Helpful space - Wellington Zinefest.

Artist statement technique - write down words of interest and art practice 'brain dump'. Then put these words into Google anywhere. eco feminism / women / performance art / queer theory / 1960s performance / identity / sovereignty / relational aesthetics

Julia Kristen - defined the distinction between the semiotic and symbolic aspects of language.

Capturing ephemera - language not physical, standing apart from the written word but just as valid. Theory is philosophy applied to art. Martin found he could cite Marcel Duchamp and Elvis Presley in any text he wrote.

“To say exactly what one means, even to one's own private satisfaction, is difficult. To say exactly what one means and to involve another person is harder still. Communication between you and me relies on assumptions, associations, commonalities and a kind of agreed shorthand, which no-one could precisely define but which everyone would admit exists. That is one reason why it is an effort to have a proper conversation in a foreign language. Even if I am quite fluent, even if I understand the dictionary definitions of words and phrases, I cannot rely on a shorthand with the other party, whose habit of mind is subtly different from my own. Nevertheless, all of us know of times when we have not been able to communicate in words a deep emotion and yet we know we have been understood. This can happen in the most foreign of foreign parts and it can happen in our own homes. It would seem that for most of us, most of the time, communication depends on more than words.” ― Jeanette Winterson, Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery

What language do I have that is a 'shorthand'? Slang? Places? Inside jokes? Colloquial terminology? Example with a collection of specific language with partner. If it is not 'proper' language or writing by dominant western patriarchal institutional standards... Then who is it proper for? Who does it work for? Fine those citations and references... find community.

Considering critically [thoughtfully] how my [and where my] positionally presents itself in my art practice. Think about WHO I am citing. Their positionally affecting their 'citational legacy'.

Embodied knowledge also becomes - or relates to - anthropology and autobiography.

"...citations as extensions of our relational world and as a way we can acknowledge and nurture the intergenerational relationships that constitute who we are, and how we come to know." "...CALLING FORTH OUR PASTS, CITING OUR FUTURES." - Hana Burgess, Donna Cormack, Papaarangi Reid.

✦ SAMPLING IS CITATION.

TRANSLATED FROM A DECEMBER 2023 GABINETE ARTICLE (found on Instagram)

"For me the sample has the function of reframing (?), you recount the history via a new perspective [...] I find that the sample has a profound connection with black culture through its principles [...] it is based on our very own history. And the sample for me isn't just in music, it is in the argument; you can sample video, you can sample ideas, you can sample words, the way in which we created this project was entirely sampled."

'Changing the future by pairing the past with a citational footprint; to bring in the stories of others into your citation.'

"The personal is political"; "The personal is political" ;"The personal is political"; Citing by citations citing other citations. Using a font created by a woman to write with further feminist embodiment.

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

February 14, 2023

TOP 10 GOP COMMITTEE INVESTIGATIONS

10 – Dept. of Justice (DOJ) mistreatment of Jan. 6 patriotic insurrectionists

9 – Dems siccing the IRS on rich donors of conservative causes.

8 – U.S. funding of the creation of the Covid-19 virus to attack conservatives

7 – Chinese capturing the World Health Organization and its balloons

6 – Parents labeled “domestic terrorists” for taking AR-15s to school board meetings.

5 – President Biden's plan to open the borders to drug cartels

4 – Dems importing brown immigrants to replace White Christians

3 – Hunter Biden's laptop and his relationship with the Chinese and Pornhub

2 – Dems propaganda and lies about right-wing extremist swinger clubs

1 – And not least, the DOJ's LSD-offensive aimed at making fools of Republicans

WILL FEDS LOWER BOOM ON LDS ALLEGED TAX FRAUD?

Here we go again — LDS Church leaders have been so busy praying to save The Great Salt Lake and explaining their position on same-sex marriage that they may have forgotten to list some assets on tax documents. Oops. Now hold on Wilson, this isn't exactly straight out of the Donald Trump playbook. For one thing Ensign Peak Advisors, the church's investment arm, doesn't own any golf courses. David A. Nelson, who once managed funds for Ensign Peak, wants the Senate Finance Committee to investigate Ensign Peak for “systematic fraud” anf masquerading as a tax-exempt organization. Nelson alleges the church owes some $20 billion in back taxes. Well, this is another fine mess they've gotten into. The Wall Street Journal reports that the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) is already barking up the church's tree. But who knows? U.S. tax laws are a can of worms designed to serve the wealthy. Some experts say Nelson is full of... beans. Don't forget James Huntsman, the surfing brother of the former Utah governor. He sued the church for fraud alleging it diverted tithing to build the City Creek Center. The suit was drop-kicked out of federal court. Say what you will, Wilson, but it's good to have God and expensive tax lawyers on your side.

SHERIFF DeSANTIS GUNNIN' FOR MICKEY MOUSE

Florida Gov. Ron “Make-My-Day” DeSantis, the presidential aspirant who is working overtime to out-Trump Trump, has a message for Mickey Mouse: “There is a new sheriff in town,” referring to Disney World and all its LGBT perverts — Goofy, Donald Duck, Pluto and the gang. “I will not allow a woke corporation based in California to run our state.” Florida legislators stripped Disney World of its 56-year-old special tax status as punishment for its wokeness. The fiasco came in the wake of DeSantis' “Never Say Gay” legislation that prohibits classroom discussions on sexual orientation and gender identity. Then-Disney CEO Bob Chapek called the law B.S. and apologized to employees and pledged to end donations to Republican candidates including DeSantis. The new law also gave DeSantis the authority to appoint the board that oversees Disney World. But there was just one little catch: Florida taxpayers would pay for Disney's firefighting, policing, road maintenance and would have to cover Disney's tax debt of $1billion. Oops — Florida lawmakers hastily renewed Disney's special tax status. But DeSantis declared victory anyway and quickly moved on for more culture-war headlines by blocking state colleges from teaching diversity, equity and critical race theory. Make my day, indeed.

Post script —That'll do it for another week of “The Greatest Air On Earth” here at Smart Bomb where we keep track of the truckloads of cash Saudi Crowned Prince Mohammed bin Salman dumps on Donald Trump and his son-in-law, Jared Kushner — to date, $4 billion and $2 billion respectively. As you might recall, Trump's first official foreign visit as president was to (drum roll) Saudi Arabia. You're right Wilson, it's not what you know. In 2018 the prince ordered the killing of Washington Post columnist Jamal Khashoggi, who spoke  out on Saudi human rights abuses. His body was found cut up in little pieces. At the time Trump said, “Other countries kill people, too.” From our “Wassup”-file. Got UFOs? Do we ever: Friday, Feb. 10 — UFO shot down over Alaska by a U.S. F-22 Raptor fight jet; Saturday, Feb. 11 — UFO shot down by U.S. F-22 over northern Canada; Sunday, Feb. 12 — UFO shot down by U.S. F-15 fighter jets over Lake Huron. In a statement, the White House said, “[T]here is no indication of aliens or extraterrestrial activity with these recent takedowns.” But the Pentagon said it has yet to find out where the object shot down over Lake Huron came from. Hmmm. “I am not able to categorize how they stay aloft,” said Air Force General Glen VanHerck. Absolutely nothing to worry about.

Well Wilson, Disney World has a new sheriff and he's a total badass buzz-kill culture warrior. So maybe you and the guys in the band can take us out with a little something for Mickey, Goofy, Donald Duck, Pluto and the gang. What can you do to protect your community from such a gun-slinging autocrat with blood in his eye. Take it away:

I shot the sheriff But I didn't shoot no deputy, oh no, oh I shot the sheriff But I didn't shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, ooh Yeah, all around in my home town They're trying to track me down, yeah They say they want to bring me in guilty For the killing of a deputy But I say oh, now, now, oh I shot the sheriff, the sheriff But I swear it was in self-defense, oh no I say, I shot the sheriff, oh Lord And they say it is a capital offense, yeah Freedom came my way one day And I started out of town, yeah All of a sudden I saw Sheriff John Brown Aiming to shoot me down So I shot, I shot, I shot him down I shot the sheriff But I didn't shoot no deputy, oh no, ooh, ooh I shot the sheriff, I did But I didn't shoot no deputy, ooh, ooh, ooh

I say I-I-I, I shot the sheriff Lord, I didn't shot the deputy, no, no Yeah, I-I shot the sheriff But I didn't shoot no deputy, yeah, so, yeah

(I Shot The Sheriff — Bob Marley)

[charnelhouse]

flesh

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x F!Reader Wordcount: 5K Warnings: Graphic Gore. Mentions of torture. Serious trauma. Very upsetting thoughts. Bad therapy. DARK subject matter. Smut. Angst. Ransom is probs OOC. Cheating. Drinking. Drug Use. The use of cunt in a mean way. This is bleak (sort of happy ending though :)) Summary: Ransom agrees to a road trip. A/N: I wrote a Ransom Drysdale/Texas Chainsaw Massacre mash-up. Don't ask me why. I started this a couple weeks ago after reading Kin and just had to get it done. Sometimes idk where my mind goes lmao. this is pretty messy bc I haven’t beta’d it. Tis a writing exercise

Ransom didn’t do road trips. He definitely didn’t do them when the whole ride was bathed in swampy heat. The air was so thick it stuck to the asphalt. They're in the middle of nowhere. Texas, maybe? He’d been drunk for most of it. He stashed expensive scotch in the trunk. Three bottles.

It’s a double date. You’re his childhood friend - a girl he’s known since he was ten years old. Harlan's goddaughter.

It’s the kind of friendship that was birthed out of necessity - force. Their parents did yearly vacations together and they just had to make something of it. Twenty years later and it’s him and it’s you and this girl, Lauren, he fucked like three times and then your somewhat-steady dimwit of a boyfriend, Paul.

Paul…the name gives him a rash.

Ransom appraises him from the backseat. The loser is tapping his fingers across the steering wheel as he hums to the music. He's like a ken doll with golden hair and tan skin and a baby-face. Ew. Lauren is riding shotgun because Ransom can’t deal with her right now. He’s just not in the mood to play his part for her today. He doesn't need her rubbing up against him as he tries to drown out whatever the hell is going spoiled in the interior of this car.

Why the fuck did he come here?

Ransom.

What?

You owe me.

For?

The millions of times that I’ve saved your ass from shit dates.

What do you want?

A road trip. New Orleans and all the way to Santa Fe. It’ll be fun.

You and me? How romantic.

No…no…bring someone.

He didn’t really bust your ass about it. He assumed that you thought that a one-on-one car ride with your kind-of-sort-of-boyfriend was just too much too soon. It’s not as if he had important things to do. He’d spent the entirety of the summer doing nothing, but jacking off to pornhub and developing a drinking problem.

As the red stain of the Texas sun bludgeons through his sunglasses, he takes another heavy swallow. The burn is more subtle now that he's reached a calming level of not-sober. It warms his esophagus, expanding throughout the shell of his chest. He’s buzzed and jittery and he can smell your flower market perfume.

At least - he was developing a drinking problem in motion rather than stretched out on his bed back in Boston.

Lauren reaches for him behind the seat - her long pink nails outstretched and waiting. He rolls his eyes and grasps her hand. He squeezes before letting go just as quickly.

You cast him an amused glance before staring past him and out toward the churning green-gold mass of the grass and fields and pale-blue sky.

Ransom can’t help but notice that you're sporting blunt nails and dark blue polish. Ugh. Lauren had been fine. She blew him in the backseat while you and 2005’s Abercrombie & Fitch rep were cuddling at a diner when they stopped in Round Rock. Lauren didn’t seem all that jealous of the fact that his closest friend was a chick and a hot one at that.

Wasn’t his fault that you grew into your face.

Also - wasn’t his fault that he’d fucked you a couple times.

It was easy for them. They were good with each other. They’d never gone beyond that because, quite frankly, he was a fucking bastard and you didn’t have the patience.

It's better this way Ransom. You'd drive me insane. We're too volatile.

You mean I'm too volatile.

Yes.

You don't complain about that when I have you on my cock.

Jesus. You're impossible.

He just liked you. He had memorized you. He knew your scent and your skin and the exact way you liked to come. Plus - you swallowed.

***

He may or may not have screwed you in the hotel back in New Orleans. They’d been out all day. Ransom had a sunburn and was surviving off a single beignet and a belly full of alcohol. Paul and Lauren had gone out to get more beers to bring back. Ransom had slipped Paul a bundle of cash to see if he could find any blow. He'd need it if he was going to get through the night.

You’d been lying next to him on the hotel’s garish crimson comforter. Both of them drunk off too many hurricanes as they rubbed against each other in that subtle way where they meant it to be platonic, but it turned into something too warm and too intimate. Your gaze met his and it happened as it always did.

His pants around his ankles and your shorts yanked off one leg so he could open you up. He spread your thighs wide and rocked into you in long, lazy strokes.

“You should break up with that guy,” he husked as he licked your jaw. The bed creaked and every punch of his cock made breathy little moans pop out of your mouth.

You didn’t answer him, but you did flex your cunt around his length so that he choked.

“Brat,” he growled as he hitched your knees over his shoulders and bent you in half. The room spun with the salt of their sweat and the wet slap of skin and his rumbling grunts. He pounded into your slick heat, feeling like he could die like this.

“C’mon, baby,” he taunted - his voice rich and smug. “You can’t tell me that someone gives it better to you than I do.”

You shook your head - eyes widening as he ground his pelvic bone into your clit. He really could make you cock dumb when he wanted. You’d be all noises - desperate uh uh uh ohmygod ohfuck ohshit -

“Ransom,” you gasped and he fucked you harder.

“That’s it,” he urged as he felt your pussy begin to spasm and twitch - milk him. He brushed his knuckles over your cheek. You were so warm - almost feverish. “That feels good, yeah? Fuck - you take my cock like you were made for it.”

It was the same song and dance. They’d date other people and then fuck once in a blue moon, which only served to remind them how sexually compatible they were. He claimed you. You claimed him. But all the rest - the emotional fallout - was sprinkled in the shadows outside the bed. Their friendship was too much to risk.

You dragged your fingers through his hair - the blunt nails scraping his scalp - before you lifted your hips so that he could plunge deeper. “Come for me, Ransom. Please…please…”

Afterward - they slowly fixed themselves. The air curiously sober. He glanced at your cunt - flushed and swollen and leaking the load he’d just filled you with. He traced his finger through your folds - making you shiver. He pushed his come back inside - his flaccid dick throbbing when you clamped around his knuckles.

“Do you use a condom with Paul?” He said his name like it was trash - like he was some nasty bothersome insect between them.

You blinked at him and the corner of your lips quirked. “What do you think?” There was no guilt in your eyes - no shock at what they'd done. This was just how it was with them. He wondered that if he ever got married - would he still keep fucking you? Probably. Your pussy was just too good. “I think they’re coming back,” you remarked with your legs still spread - your body boneless and your expression contemplative like it wouldn’t even matter if they did come back in and see them like this. He gripped the denim shorts and lacy pink underwear around your ankle and started tugging them up your leg - over the bump of your knee.

He kissed you - wet and messy and with too much tongue - until he heard the key card ping at the hotel door.

***

Ransom drops his forehead against the glass. It’s too hot here. Too sour with humidity. He shoots you a sidelong glance - grimacing as a wave of dizziness overtakes him. You're lounging against the other window, studying your phone. Weren’t you supposed to be enjoying the grand ole USA?

He swallows his spit. Too much alcohol had left him with cotton-mouth.

He wants to fuck you. Again. He wants to ditch Lauren and Paul and go back to a hotel and order expensive wine and lick your cunt.

He tips his bottle back and he feels the heat of you at his bare arm. You'd scooted closer when he wasn't looking. He’s dressed so casually. Jeans and a v-neck and he hasn’t shaved in a while because you said you liked it.

He takes another sip. Scotch really doesn’t fucking mesh with this thick Texas heat.

“You’re enjoying that,” you observe as you tap the bottle with your index finger.

You don’t chastise him. You never give him shit, which is why they work. It’s always just: Ransom. Ransom. Ransom. You’re a mess.

Sometimes you call him Hugh to really piss him off.

He smacks his lips and offers you a crooked smile. “It’s doing wonders for my boredom.”

“I heard this back way has some interesting spots,” Paul shouts over his shoulder - against the loud rolling beat of Semisonic. Lauren’s got her feet on the dash and the dude doesn’t say a word. It’s his car. If it had been Ransom’s he would have swatted her. But Ransom wouldn’t drive an SUV and Ransom wouldn’t fucking be here if it wasn’t for the girl beside him.

I can’t say no to you.

You’ve said no to me a thousand times.

Well - I don’t remember those.

You squeeze his thigh - cocking your head with a mischievous sort of gleam in your eyes. “Whaddya say, Drysdale? Want to go the back way?”

He shoves his hand under your ass and prods you through your jeans. You yelp. “I’d rather be up your back way.”

You punch him hard in the shoulder and he hisses. “Fuck you gotta lay off those boxing classes. That hurt.”

You laugh - completely unfazed by his dirty mouth. He catches Paul’s narrowed glare in the rearview mirror and smirks. Dork.

“I’m down,” Lauren yells over Third Eye Blind. Ransom winces. He wonders if he could get Paul to fuck Lauren. He already doesn’t like him for you. He’s not good enough. Too clean cut. He’s wearing a fucking polo.

Paul twists the wheel to the left and starts driving down a narrow dusty road. Ransom frowns.

Texas is too flat. It’s all long grass. It’s all sky. He misses the city and his $10k mattress and the Italian spot he could order $30 spaghetti from.

“We’re gonna get eaten by cannibals,” he grumbles but doesn’t protest. He’s really getting drunk and a part of him thinks he’s about to blow this whole thing up. He’s going to fondle you or kiss you or finger you regardless of Lauren or Paul. You lean toward him - your warm breath fanning across his face. You’d been chewing bubble gum and he savors the sweet artificial bite to it. “I’ll protect you.”

He’s definitely gonna fuck you again.

“You’re good at that.”

“I’ve got decades of practice.”

He pushes the bottle into your hands. “Get drunk with me.”

You take a sip - a second - a third. He could lurch forward and tug your bottom lip between his teeth. He’s hoping the look he’s sending you reads: fuck me fuck me fuck me.

There’s no one else in this car, but them and Stephen Jenkins.

You wipe your chin and hand him the bottle back. His mouth sticks to the print of your lip gloss around the neck. He downs another shot. The car bounces over the unpaved road.

“I feel like this is a bad idea,” he mutters.

You shrug. “You and I do nothing, but bad ideas.”

“Touché, bestie.”

***

Eight months later - he still can’t sleep through the night. He hates open doors. He always catches figures strolling through the hallway outside his bedroom. Shadows. The smell of rotting meat.The buzz of flies.

Sometimes he looks in the mirror and flinches because he sees another Ransom. His eyes bloody - the vessels blown and turning the sclera to red. He grips the sink until his knuckles turn white. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight that it shudders and twitches and his lungs won't inflate the way that they should.

He crawls into your bed when it gets too bad, which is pretty much every night. You’d moved in with him after your parents had finally allowed you to. Your mom stays over more often than not. Sometimes his mom stays over, which is a shock in itself. Joni brings them healing crystals, which makes you laugh (not a nice laugh either). Meg won’t shut up about how often they’re on the news until he finally blocks her number. It’s not like it matters. Nothing really matters to him anymore, but you and the hard thrum of your heart when it beats beneath his ear.

You had been soaked in blood and he had tasted it.

Now they are in his sumptuous bedroom with its dark green walls and linen sheets. Egyptian cotton. The taste of riches and everything - everything - is ash.

“How are we here?” he murmurs into your neck - his fingers twisting around yours - careful of the dull nub of flesh where one used to be. You had screamed when it had happened and it had gutted him.

I can’t get to you. I can’t get to you. I’m sorry.

“Because we got out,” you shrug like it’s not a big deal - like they hadn’t been on the very cusp of death. Not even death. It had been an event. It had been oily and disgusting. The scent of rot and old fat and so much blood. He’d never realized that blood could literally have a smell and a taste as it filled a room. Metallic. Bitter. Like licking rusty pipes.

“Did we?” he asks. “Doesn’t feel that way sometimes.”

You don’t reply. You curl your fingers into his shirt. The Henley is soft on his skin. He can’t stand anything not soft. Starched fabric and paper gowns had caught on his stitches. They'd left him cold and shivering and vulnerable. Sometimes you’ll take his shirt off to drag your touch across the newly closed wounds - still pink and angry. His torso was going to be nothing, but scars. His muscles - so carefully built by his trainer and his protein shakes - had lost their thickness. They had to shave his chest when they attended to him at that horrific hospital in Texas. It’s all barely growing back.

His throat works. He wraps his arms around your waist - pressing the side of his face to your breast where he can feel your lungs expand.

“Do you think they know where we are?”

You make a soft, contemplative sound.

“Do you dream of them? Do you remember?”

“Yes,” you reply in a tight voice - your entire body locking up in Ransom’s hold. He’s a little loopy from his meds. He’d gotten bottles of anti-anxiety solutions: Xanax. Klonopin. Zoloft. Ambien.

He has a lot of doctors.

All the orange bottles stand on his bedside table like toy soldiers. He can’t drink Scotch anymore.

***

He’s not sure how you manage. You’d gotten the worst of it.

At least he’s pretty sure you did. You’d looked like something not living when you’d crawled toward him. They’d been separated into different rooms. Wooden backwoods huts. The monsters who’d done it were all yellowed teeth and greasy hair and yet there’d been something like mischief in their eyes when they took him apart - like this was all a game - it was all so fun -

“Whaddya say, Drysdale? Want to go the back way?”

You had come out stronger. He was tortured - unable to make sense. Sick. You were bitter and pissed off and so fucking quiet even though you had saved him. You had ripped yourself out of those chains and clawed your way to him. Your body broken. Your mouth bleeding. Your beautiful face distorted into something...unreal.

Your hands are warm on his cheeks and he flinches. He hurts everywhere. Agony in his stomach. He’d been stabbed more than once. He thinks. He can’t feel his feet. He hangs like a sack of meat. That’s what they are. They’re cattle. Pigs. He’s half-carved up. He’s missing something. He knows he is. His teeth even hurt. He doesn’t want to look down.

Ransom. Ransom. We have to get out of here.

Look at me, Drysdale.

His eyes are swollen shut, but he manages to peel one lid open. He tries to. For you. Your expression is horrific - disfigured. Still lovely, though. He can't fucking imagine what monsters do to beautiful things. He wishes he’d taken you to that hotel. Something hot and loud screams in your pupils. Your swollen lips curl into a terrifying sort of smile. There's blood in your perfect white teeth.

I killed one of them. We don’t have much time. I’m gonna get you down.

He’s missing two fingers and three toes and you’re missing fragments in vital places. Chunks. A screw loose. You’ll never be the same again and neither will he and that somehow works. They hadn’t fit together before. He was too sharp and narcissistic and you were too rounded and sweet.

Apparently, he’d been a coward and you’d been built for disaster. You’d thrived in it - blossomed and unfurled into something those pieces of shit could be scared of.

Ransom thinks they mold now - slip into each other’s openings. He’s honestly glad that he fucked you in that New Orleans hotel before they’d gone down that wrong road in bum fuck nowhere. He’s glad he got to have you as you were before. It’s always before now. Before that. Before the fall. Before Ransom discovered what true fear really felt like.

He’s glad he got to have you because now he can compare. The girl - the woman - he has now is galaxies removed from who she’d been. You are brighter regardless of what you are missing. You’re his. He tastes your grief when he drinks from you because it’s his, as well. They share this. There is no one else who’d understand because the others died almost immediately.

It should have been me. I should have saved you.

You didn’t have the opening that I did. I’m sure you would have if you got the chance.

He doesn’t have the same faith in himself that you do. He’d been pretty ready to die after your screams started to go quiet and he had lost track of the flesh he was losing.

***

A year passes and his grandfather strips him for stories. He’s not blunt or mean about it, but he does ask out of his own morbid curiosity.

Harlan waits for what he must think is the appropriate amount of time. He tries to shove his questions into his concerned observations at the dinner table

“My god - you’re lucky to be alive, Ransom! You poor boy. What did they use?”

What did they use?

What did they NOT use?

The question sends him right back to those manacles and those wooden walls and all that blood. He glares at the chicken on his plate. Vomit curdles in his throat. Something pinches behind his nose - his eyes.

Ransom starts crying and his grandfather shuts up - horrified. Marta even stares at him with something akin to pity - sorrow - as if he’s just a flattened animal on the road. His mother does this strange thing where she opens and closes her mouth like a dying carp.

You act quickly - scooting out of your chair, rushing toward him, and sweeping him up with the intensity of a rogue wave. You cradle his face to your warm soft tits and he hates that he’s thinking of your tits while you’re trying to rescue him from a panic attack - but then he thinks:

Shit - that’s somewhat close to who I was before.

His hand comes to rest on your ass and he inhales your cashmere sweater - the plush smell of detergent. He’d like to be inside you. He’d like to push himself into you and watch your face change as you stretch around him.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of sex.

Yes - that’s a relief. Bits of Ransom still remain.

***

In his nightmares, he still hears the chains clink and tick. They’d hung from the roof of that shack. Rusted hooks. His wrists had been chafed to raw, red tissue.

The tires of Paul’s SUV had been torn to shreds. Ransom remembers stumbling out of the car and seeing the sun glint off a spike strip in the distance.

“Something’s wrong,” he said more to himself than anyone else. He’d sobered up almost immediately.

They’d trekked a mile until they’d come upon the lone house. He’d gotten a sick feeling, but he’d blamed it on the alcohol. The Scotch churned in his gut. Sweat sheeted down his shoulders and into the back of his jeans.

The house was dilapidated. Peeling white paint. A splintering porch. A threadbare rope swing in the trees.

They’d knocked on the door and Lauren was the first to die. Ransom still remembers the shock of seeing a skull get crushed in by a mallet. It had felt far away as if he didn’t know that the body in front of him was Lauren - that the wet spray that touched his face was blood and tissue and brain. Not sweat.

The sound stuck with him though. He can’t forget it. He can't eat melons anymore.

At that moment, he hadn’t really thought. He’d grabbed your wrist and yanked you down the stairs of that shitty porch and ran.

***

They sleepover at his grandfather’s because he doesn’t feel like driving home. He’s stunned that he had cried in front of them. He didn’t do that. He hasn’t cried in front of anyone since he was eight.

“Let’s go to bed,” you murmur as you touch his shoulder. He stares at the scarred tissue where your index finger was and grimaces.

They sleep together and no one says a word because that’s just how it is now. It’s you. It’s me.

***

Their parents are pleased that they’re together now. It's what they've assumed since they don't leave each other's side. Maybe - it really is true. That day had sewn them into one single body. They'd been close before. You were closer than anyone had ever been to Ransom. But, now, they were stuck. They were mated.

"We always knew you two would end up like this," his mother smiled before frowning - perhaps realizing what she'd said and what it implied seeing as they'd had to crawl through Hell to get there. "I just - I just meant that you're a couple. You're finally a couple. I always thought she was good for you-“

"Shut up, mom." Ransom hissed. "Just shut up."

Funny that no one in the family realized they’d been fucking since they were teenagers. The first time had been in the sand on Nantucket and you hadn’t even been beautiful then. You’d just been awkward and soft and it felt like a good idea. They’d shared ice cream afterward.

He stares up at the ceiling as you lie beside him. Your breathing is even and comforting. Harlan’s house makes too many noises, but Ransom likes the fact that it’s filled with people. Staff. His mother who had become overly maternal since Ransom nearly died. It was strange because it didn't fit her. She wasn’t the shape of a mother.

Without looking at you - he places his hand on your stomach. You jerk a bit before you relax. You put your palm on the top of his hand.

“I love you,” he declares like he declared it a year ago.

***

He hadn’t been the hero. You’d saved him. You’d gotten loose and shoved a shard of wood through one of their eyes and then had dragged him to the road. You had thick splinters stuck in the tender meat of your fingers.

Come on. Come on. Come on, Ransom. You have to work with me here. I can’t lift you.

Yes - yeah good job just like that. Fuck - don’t stop. The others might come back.

A selfish part of him - the old envious part - wondered if you would have saved Paul had he been alive. He doubts it. He hadn’t even thought of anyone else when he had tried to run from the house with your wrist in his hand. Paul didn’t exist. Lauren was definitely dead (there'd been brain on his shirt to prove it) and even if she had been alive, it still would have been you he tried to protect.

He could barely see. His eyes were swollen and blood sluiced down his brow from a cut reopening. He had broken ribs. A punctured lung. He was sure of it. He gritted his teeth against the pain and kept his focus on the dead grass and dirt beneath their feet. You'd had pink toenail polish. He was missing toes.

From behind them, orange light filtered over the green and danced across the white wispy cotton. He tried to look over his shoulder.

"Don't," you hissed as you wrapped your arm tighter around his waist - his bones shifting together. He bit back a howl. "Don't look. Just move."

He had smelled smoke. Acrid and harsh on top of the hundred-plus heat.

"Did you burn the house down?" he managed to ask - a caustic laugh riding his tongue. It was the first thing he had said since you'd freed him from the chains. He was grateful his tongue worked. His throat was violently dry.

"Hopefully," You growl. He never asked how you were able to do it.

He thinks they may have run a mile though "run" was probably not the apt term. Crawled. Stumbled. Jerked. Neither of them had shoes and they had to walk beside the road because the asphalt was too hot. A pick-up slowed. The driver had nearly screamed at the sight of them until Ransom had gripped him roughly around his overalls - staining the denim with dark black blood.

"Hospital.” He grunted. "Hospital. Now."

"Get in," the driver wheezed - fingers trembling around the steering wheel. Thank. Fuck.

Ransom nodded and turned toward you. You blinked owlishly at him as if you couldn't quite remember where you were. It took a moment before your face completely crumpled.

"Shit," he cursed in a low voice before grasping your waist. "C'mon, baby. I've got you."

You went limp - deflating with the final sparks of your adrenaline. He used his last bit of strength to lift you up and drop you into the truck's bed.

“They’re still coming,” you mumbled as you grabbed at Ransom - tugging him in after you. “They could still be coming.”

He stared at the horizon - where they had escaped from. The great stain of smoke rushed toward the sun from the burning house. He thought he saw figures in the distance. He might have. He also could barely see three feet in front of him due to his crushed eye socket.

"No one is coming," he assured you. "No one."

You were shivering. Your skin like ice. Your lower lip quivered in a way that made him inhale sharply.

The bed of the truck was covered in rope and a plastic tarp. It reeked of a farm: manure and cattle. He missed the city.

He collapsed, resting his head in your wet lap. Blood in his hair. The house - those rooms - had painted them in their smell: meat, urine and sweat. There were those splinters in your palm as you stroked his face - your breathing hurried and panicked. He said your name. Repeated it.

It was no longer about him. It was no longer him at all. It was you. It was only you and the sun felt raw and white against his closed lids. At the time, he really thought he was dying. He could have been. The hospital had said both of them were in critical condition when they’d finally arrived. He had been going cold - the heat in his chest beginning to dissipate. His mouth was dry as wool as he struggled for each gasp of oxygen. His blood was leaving him too quickly.

“I love you,” he said as he tangled his gore-ridden fingers around yours.

“You’re not dying,” you replied bluntly. There’d been no room for argument.

***

It had been that way ever since. It was a push and pull. It was an equilibrium of sorts. You went dark and he found you - yanking you to the surface. He broke down and you shoved him back together.

He was still selfish in so many ways. The only difference was that his selfishness was now projected onto you. His entire fucking existence revolved around your well-being. It was probably unhealthy. His therapist, Dr. Stephens, had used words like "co-dependent" and "love addiction".

Dr. Stephens had also pointed out all the things that triggered him like when he threw up at the sight of the Christmas Roast or when he sat in his closet for an hour because he heard the rumble of a chainsaw. The gardeners were just cutting down a tree in the front yard.

"Don't you think she's a reminder for you? You both dealt with so much that day. You're relying on her to the point where you can't function without her presence."

Ransom's mouth parted - his fingers digging into the armrests of the velvet chair. His lungs shriveled. His chest tightened. Blood pounded at his temples. His fury knocked him flat. It had been shades of the old him - bursting forth and off his tongue and it spilled out of his veins and guts and brain. The very idea of removing you from his life made him sick.

"She saved me, you dumb cunt."

He stood up and walked out the door and found another therapist.

***

He sits back on his heels - studying your face - your body - painted across his bed like Ophelia in that Millais painting.

He uses one hand to clasp your waist as he braces his other hand beside your head. You’ve lost so much weight from anxiety. You look like you’ve been carved out. The memories split your mask in two and this is the face you give him. The real one. The burnt-out one.

I'm tired, Ransom. I'm really fucking tired.

The terror for them had been just as real as the agony those maniacs had inflicted.

I know. I know.

He’s gentle about it. He slowly tugs your pajama shorts off. He tastes the skin of your stomach - drags his mouth over your hip and inner thigh before he slips his tongue between your legs. You even taste different - like there’s the tiniest flicker of spice at the base of you. There are scars and he kisses them and he thinks that he will now always see you as that girl who had yanked him out of that shack - coated in a thick film of blood - eyes wild and feral and furious as you led him to safety.

He’s very careful when he sinks into you. He covers your mouth with his so he can lap at the moan that escapes from your throat. It’s a slow pace. He draws his cock back before he pushes in again. The mattress creaks. You bury your nose into his neck and sigh with each stroke he delivers.

“Is this okay?” he asks as he peppers kisses across the edge of your jaw.

He doesn’t remember how to fuck hard - how to be rough and unyielding. He doesn't remember how to be a piece of shit asshole or how to wear his Rolex again (they had taken it and his mother had bought him a new one). What he does remember is how to make you burst around him - he remembers your tells and your kinks and your wants before you need to voice them.

“Are you okay?” he repeats to be sure.

“Yes,” You spread your thighs wider. You dig your nails into his ass to force him deeper.

He quickens his movements. He sneaks his arm between them and uses his thumb to circle your clit. Your breathing becomes more hurried - your lashes fluttering - sweat collecting at your hairline. Your eyes glassy with all the bushes tears you save for him. “Ransom,” you plead in a way that is nearly a sob. “Please.”

He claims your lips just as you come. Your pussy contracting around him - your knees tightening at his hips. He is soon to follow - wrung dry by your body as you swallow him whole. He rolls onto his back, bringing you along so that you’re lying flat on top of him. Chest to chest.

“I don’t feel like sleeping.” You trace the gnarled flesh of his shoulder where a dirty blade had pierced him and given him tetanus. He grabs a handful of your ass. You’re so warm - feverish with the afterglow of sex. Your heart pounds against his. He touches you all over sometimes. Just to make sure.

“Get drunk with me?” he proposes and it reminds him of the last time he had said that. His lungs wrinkle and distort. His stomach turns over. You lift yourself up to gaze down at him - fully aware of where his mind has gone. You clasp his chin to wrench his face to yours.

“Let’s do it,” You steal his breath with a harsh, desperate kiss that burns right through him. It kind of hurts and he kind of likes it. No surprise that their relationship to pain has been thoroughly fucked.

“No Scotch,” He brushes his knuckles over your cheek - right where another scar stretches under your eye.

“No Scotch,” you agree.

He smirks and it tastes like himself.

[transformarium]

Serum - Gotta get them young

Before I found this young scally on my trip to England, I was short, being 5’ and had no muscles. The scally was lying in a quiet back alley passed out. I decided that a change was in order and the scally would be the provider for it. I had a vial of Transformarium’s Serum and injected it on him. After five minutes, I merged with the scally. Now I had a nice young white body, and I was already taller, being 5’ 5”. This was a good starting point as this version of the Serum has a will component that allows the merger to influence the end result by willing it.

It has been six months after the merge, and I have gained some height and body hair. I have made a habit of visiting the clubs as I decided to take over the scally’s identity and stay here in England. The scally originally lived in Liverpool, but I didn’t want to bump into any of the host’s friends. I was lucky that he was an orphan and had been through the foster system with multiple families without getting close with any of them.

As the merger happened just after my host’s 18th birthday, he still had enough puberty left that the process produced quite spectacular results. Now I am now “19”, and I have to say that the gym has done wonders for me. I currently live in Brighton and the sea air suits me fine.

It is pretty funny how people do not notice that I have a black head on a white body. I have totally taken over the scally’s life, and it was easy as there were no pictures of the previous head. I also started studies at the local Brighton Uni with geology as a major. In my old life, I was big tits on blond kind of man, but apparently, my host has changed that. I am not sure how but I can’t get hard with my previous favourites on PornHub. One thing is clear, my host always wanted to get tats, but he didn’t have a body to show them.

I am now “23” with a Master’s degree in Geology. I have taken a new hobby, and that is camping and hiking. I feel that something is missing and cannot figure it out for my life. I forgot to update that I am still growing which is quite funny and recently passed 6’ mark. The serum is still working.

I am now “25” and 6’ 6” in height. I have my own geological survey business which gives a comfortable living for me. Recently I figured out that I am missing a life partner, and for that, I ordered a vial of Serum just in case.

I was in Bournemouth for business when I heard weeping from a side alley. I found a naked young Asian man. I took him to my hotel room, where he took a shower and dressed in second-hand clothes from the hotel’s lost and found. He told me that he had been tricked, and they took everything soon as he arrived from Hong Kong. And he meant everything, even his meagre savings from his bank account. He could not tell anyone as he was an orphan without suitable contacts and had taken a gamble to participate in an exchange program to study here business. Something about his story struck my heart. There and then, I decided to take a risk and make him my partner. However, something was missing to make things complete, and I didn’t know what.

Later we visited a garage where my car was being checked out. The owner noticed and yelled at my Asian friend that scallies are not welcome. He looked like a scally wearing second-hand clothes from the hotel. I got angry and injected the owner with the serum.

My Asian friend now looks magnificent and manly. His new age is 35 to his previous 18. He took over the garage and the previous owner's identity. His new name is Lytton Greene, a very English name. To our surprise, he also got everything to run the garage successfully. The new Lytton makes more money than the old Lytton. Funny case here, as the garage owner was straight as I was before but the Asian was gay and kept it after merger. Now he is a gay bear and I love it. Apparently, my host had a thing for bears, and I inherited it. I moved permanently to Bournemouth. Our sex life is healthy, and we take turns on the top and bottom. We have talked about adopting a couple of boys to give them a better life. When they are teenagers, they can decide whether to use the serum on themselves or not.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Dave York + Fisting…. I’m intrigued 😏

YES SIR AHAHAHAHAHA

nasty shit under the cut

It's simple: you and your husband, Dave York, share a Pornhub account–to share videos as inspiration, to explore kinks, to watch together when Dave is pulled away for a work trip, as he often is. You also have your own account, where you can indulge in things that are a bit more niche, videos and kinks that you might not want to reenact in real life, but still really turn you on when you watch them solo. You’ve never shared them with Dave; you feel self-conscious over some of your darker tastes, not knowing what your husband would think if he knew some of the things that you watch out of sheer curiosity. 

You must have been on the wrong account last night when you were taking a little “alone time” with one such video and your vibrator.

All Dave had done was to send you a screenshot via text of the offending video in your ‘liked’ page the next day while you were both at work. No accompanying words, nothing. You don't respond, too flustered and embarrassed to acknowledge your slip-up while in the office, trying to focus on your job and not the fact that Dave knows exactly what you were doing last night while he was working late. 

That evening, you walk in the door with your heart in your throat. Dave is at the sink, loading the dishwasher, when he turns and fixes you with a look that is equal parts amused and challenging. 

You know what the first words out of his mouth are going to be before he says them.

“Extreme… fisting… compilation…” Dave murmurs, letting each word hang in the air before he moves onto the next.

“Dave, I–”

“I didn’t know you were into that,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know if I’m into it–”

“You don’t know?” Dave parrots, pouting his lips mockingly. “You must like it a little, considering you touched yourself to it last night,” he muses. “How many times did you cum?”

“How do you know I was–”

“How. Many. Times,” he repeats, lowering his voice and moving close to you to speak the question directly in your ear while you feel the heat of his body against your chest. His breath on your neck is causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. 

"Th-three," you breathe, voice wavering. 

"Three…" Dave muses, pretending to think. "I think you might like it."