#Filthy happy

[moochilatv]

Another great song of Sara Diana

Who is the villain ?

Yes, Sara music it's in Moochila blog for second time

Check the song The Villain, off Sara's new EP CAN’T BE FAZED

[ozuzo]

Happy 413 to the webcomic that changed everything! 💖

[deansbeer]

quick lil thanksgiving SOLDIER BOY drabble 🍁

YAP SESH! there might be a few mistakes from how fast i was typing this while eating lol & some warnings i might've missed. so, do let me know if you see any <3

WARNING(S)! smut | oral sex (f!receiving) | strong language | table sex | pure filth | overstimulation | DOM!BEN | unprotected sex (stay safe out there yall) | ben throwing his F bombs. ୨ৎ EIGHTEEN PLUS! ADULT CONTENT | minors do NOT interact.

୨ৎ JENSEN'S LIBRARY.

thanksgiving with ben was quiet, just the way he liked it. no family, no friends, no bullshit—just his girl and a bottle of bourbon on the table. he'd insisted on a small dinner, something simple, and you were happy to oblige. but as you're sitting across from him, laughing softly at one of his sarcastic remarks, you notice the way his gaze lingers on you a little too long, a little too hungry.

"what?" you ask, raising a brow, still mid-bite of your food.

he smirks, leaning back in his chair, his thick arms crossed over his chest. "just thinkin' how fuckin' pretty you look tonight. sittin' there in that little dress like you didn't know what was gonna happen."

you roll your eyes, but your heart skips a beat. "ben, it's thanksgiving. can't we just get through dinner for once without you—"

before you can finish, he's already on his feet, rounding the table. you barely have time to react before he grabs you, his large hands sliding under your thighs to lift you out of your chair.

"jesus christ, ben!" you gasp, laughing breathlessly as he sets you down on the dining table, plates clattering as he pushes them aside without a care.

"what?" he mocks you, his voice low, rough, and full of that cocky charm. "can't help it, doll. you're sittin' there lookin' like dessert." his hands are already sliding up your thighs, pushing the hem of your dress higher and higher until it's bunched around your waist.

"ben, the food—"

"fuck the food." his grip tightens as he yanks your panties down your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. "this is what i'm thankful for."

before you can argue, his mouth is on you, hot and wet as his tongue drags through your folds. you suck in a sharp breath, your hands flying to his hair, tugging at it as he buries his face between your thighs. he groans against you, the vibrations making your toes curl as he sucks on your clit, his beard scratching deliciously against your sensitive skin.

"goddamn," he mutters, pulling back just long enough to look up at you, his lips glistening. "you taste s'fuckin' good, baby."

you whimper, your head falling back as his tongue dives back in, licking and teasing until your legs are shaking around his head. but then he growls, low and frustrated, pulling away abruptly.

"fuck this," he mutters, standing up and fumbling with his belt. "these fuckin' pants—" he tugs them down impatiently, his cock springing free, thick and hard and already leaking.

"ben—" you start, but he's already lining himself up, grabbing your hips and pulling you to the edge of the table.

"you got somethin' t'say, sweetheart?" he taunts, his smirk widening as he thrusts into you in one smooth stroke, filling you completely. your gasp turns into a moan, your nails digging into his arms as he sets a bruising pace.

"fuck—you feel so good," he groans, his hands gripping your hips so tight you're sure they'll be bruises tomorrow morning. "been thinkin' about this all fuckin' day. you, laid out like this, takin' me so fuckin' well.”

you're a hot mess beneath him, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room alongside your moans. his thrusts are quick, steady, relentless, leaving you no room to catch your breath as he fucks you hard and deep.

"ben—fuck—too much—" you whimper, trying to push at his hips, but he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

"nah, baby," he growls, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "you can take it, like the good girl you are. i know you can."

his free hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that send you spiraling. you cry out, your back arching off the table as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around him.

"that's it," he groans, his pace faltering as he chases his own release. "fuckin' love watchin' you fall apart f'me."

he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep as he comes, his groan low and guttural. for a moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing as he rests his forehead against yours, his grip on your wrists loosening.

"happy fuckin' thanksgiving, babydoll," he mutters, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he kisses you, slow and full of love for you.

you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head. "you're unbelievable."

"yeah," he smirks, pulling out of you and stepping back, "but you love me."

and as you lay there, still trembling from the intensity of it all, you can't exactly argue with that.

[spoopdeedoop]

oh!

[arcanarix]

18+, virginity kink, noncon

yandere gojo on his birthday… and you’re his precious darling who has yet to have lost your virginity so you beg him, please, you don’t want to.

“but it’s my birthday,” he insists, grabbing you by your ankle and dragging you toward the edge of the bed. “don’t i deserve it?”

you try to shut your legs but he pries them apart, grinning wide and running his tongue over his glossy lips.

“no, please, satoru… i… you can touch but please don’t put it inside… you can… rub it… or…”

“oh yeah? that’s all i’m getting?” he sighs in disappointment but you hear him unzip his pants and pull his cock out, large, veiny and already rock hard. “just rub my cock against your cute little pussy? god, you’re making me really wait it out huh?”

he shifts your position and you’re on his lap, hand snaking to peel your underwear out of the way and chilly fingers circling your clit while the head of his cock rubs between your folds like you tell him he can. but nothing else.

“making me wait too long for your cute pussy, baby,” he babbles, “wanna fuck it so bad, but you’re so lucky i love you enough, that i won’t do what you don’t want, yeah? even on my special day.”

“y-yes, it’s kind of you, ‘toru, to have self control…” you whisper, biting down on your lip.

“that’s right, i’m a nice guy remember? all i want is to be your man, whatever it takes…even if we have to take it slow, baby.”

you nod weakly and he presses a kiss to your lips, groaning low as he takes his present, even if it’s not what he wanted.

[st0neymal0neyx0]

[kosmokhaos]

𝑁𝑒𝑤𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑆𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠 🌼

| ᵗʷᶦᵗᵗᵉʳ | ᴵⁿˢᵗᵃᵍʳᵃᵐ|

[pendingnomdeplume]

hold me hard and mellow pairing: hozier x female!reader rating: explicit (18+) tags: Miscommunications/Misunderstandings, Pining, Drunk Flirting, Drunk Sex words: 4.0k

[Read it on AO3]

title from Pillowtalk by Zayn divider by: sylusz

Though your 30th birthday was months ago, it’s difficult to ignore some of the changes that aging has brought on. You’ve noticed a few new gray hairs sprouting where there were none before, and your cheeks have lost some of the cherubic plumpness that made you look like a high schooler attempting to swindle shops for alcohol every time you wanted a beer. These changes don’t bother you. In fact, you’re excited to look a little bit older, more like your actual age. 

What catches your attention is entirely different. Something embarrassing, really. Something that you’ve been mildly self-conscious of while living in a giant, moving tin can with several other people and absolutely no privacy.

It takes exactly one Google search to confirm what you already started to suspect. 

Why am I so aroused all the time??? 

The question marks aren’t necessary, but they feel right given how perplexed you are by this development. What’s returned is page after page of different threads and message boards, all filled with women over the age of 30 confirming that, yes, their libido also increased with age. In fact, it seems fairly commonplace for women to experience their sexual peak a little bit later in life. 

While you’re relieved that this phenomenon isn’t unusual, you’re still frustrated by the fact that you feel insatiable. There’s absolutely no time to take care of yourself as often as you’d like, no space with enough privacy to even try. Your bunk on the tour bus is your only sanctuary, but even then, the curtains are easily ripped from their velcro tabs, and someone is always awake when you’re at your most desperate. 

Hotel rooms aren’t any better. You always end up sharing the space, which you can’t begrudge anyone for, really. It’s a matter of pragmatism made up for by all of the other perks of touring with Hozier—or, Andrew, as he prefers from colleagues. 

Therein lies your other issue: Andrew is currently the bane of your entire fucking existence. Not for any malicious reason, it’s just…well, you have eyes, and he’s an attractive lad. A kind lad. Funny, sensitive, talented—the list goes on. But he’s Hozier, for Christ’s sake. If he’s not a household name by now, he’s very well on his way with the release of “Too Sweet,” perhaps to his chagrin. 

Honestly, it’s just a silly crush that you would handle a lot better were it not for the fact that you live within 20 feet of the man constantly. You’re either singing on stage behind him, or sitting a stone’s throw away from him on the bus. The only reprieve you get is on hotel nights, but even then, you’ve been dragged out for dinner and drinks on several occasions, somehow always ending up either seated directly across from him or squished into a booth next to him. 

Recently, you’ve been trying to maintain a reasonable distance. You’ve stepped out of rooms he’s entered, hidden around corners as he strides by, and recused yourself from group outings for your own peace. It’s not as though anything would ever come of your crush, and it’s better to maintain space than force yourself into proximity to him and suffer at the hands of your own libido.

Honestly, you never expected him to take notice. Sure, he’s kind to you, and he’ll strike up a conversation with you when he’s in the mood, but otherwise, you’ve always thought of yourself as inconsequential. Not like Alex or Rory who have been with him since the beginning. Not like Larissa who enmeshes themself into the fold with their radiating energy and charm, nor Kamilah who is the human embodiment of glee.  

Tonight is another night of planned avoidance. The group is getting ready to go out for dinner and enjoy their evening off before the show the next night. You’ve already declined the invitation in the group chat, already fended off Joy and Mel who follow you with exaggerated pouts and pleas. In the end, they respect your decision to stay behind and promise to bring something back for you. 

With the next few hours to yourself, you curl up in bed and crack open the same book you’ve been attempting to read for the past few days—some fantasy novel with a gratuitous amount of steamy, spicy scenes that are…a little silly, if you’re being honest. But it’s fun, nearly brainless entertainment. A dessert of a novel, or perhaps the after-dinner mint. 

A quiet, polite knock at the door startles you out of your reading not even 20 minutes later. You wonder if it’s Mel, if she forgot her damn room key again, and hop out of bed in your pajama shorts and tank top without another thought. 

When you open the door, you’re surprised to find that it’s Andrew on the other side, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Oh, hey!” You greet, befuddlement obvious in your voice. “What’re you doing here? I thought you went out with everyone else.”

Andrew shakes his head. “Nah, I wasn’t feeling up for it tonight.”

“Ah.” There’s a few beats of silence as you stare at each other, until you finally ask, “Did…did you need something, or…?” Because, really, why the fuck is he here?

He’s quiet as he studies you, head tilting to one side. You’ve never been on the receiving end of his scrutiny before—at least, not that you’re aware of, anyway. It’s slightly intimidating, mostly because of his stature, but also because his attention is solely directed on you in a way you haven’t experienced previously. 

Finally, he lets out a little huff and asks, “Are you avoiding me?” 

Your eyes go wide and your mouth drops open. You quickly snap it shut, a flush already making your ears go hot.

“No! Of course not! What gave you that impression?” Lies, lies, lies, but what are you supposed to say to a question like that? 

Andrew looks rightfully unconvinced. “I just…haven’t seen you around lately.” 

He noticed?

“Right, yeah, uh…” You flounder for a response, rubbing your clammy palms against your shorts. “I’ve just—I’ve been busy, y’know? With stuff. And things.” 

“Stuff and things,” Andrew repeats back slowly with a half-smile. 

You nod, smile tightly. “Mhm. Stuff and things. Matters, even! And, um…affairs. States of affairs.” 

“Of course.” He nods sagely. “It just seems like one of those very important matters that you’re tending to might be avoiding me.” 

“Oh,” you reply lamely. “It’s—I’m not—” You’re beginning to panic, trying to think of anything to get out of this conversation that doesn’t involve slamming the door in his face. 

“Because you haven’t gone out with us in weeks,” he continues as you stammer. “And you’re fairly quick to leave any room that I enter. Or, is that just a coincidence?” 

Annoyance buzzes beneath your skin.

“There have been stranger occurrences, I’m sure,” you reply evenly.

“Right. I’m sure.” He pulls a grimace of a smile, lips pressed together tightly as he knocks once on the doorframe before taking a step back. He almost looks dejected, though that’s probably just wishful thinking on your part. 

You’re ready to close the door on him, ready to curl back up under the blankets and try to sleep off your embarrassment. Just as he begins to turn away, Andrew stops and turns back to you with a curious half-smile. 

“Would you like to go down to the hotel bar with me, then?” 

You blink. “What?” 

He shrugs easily, assuredly. “Since you’re not avoiding me, come down and get a drink with me.”

Anxiety grips your heart as your stomach flutters. It’s a bad idea. A terrible one, even. Being alone with Andrew under the influence of alcohol? You can only imagine that being a one-way ticket to a massive disaster that ends with you getting kicked off the tour entirely. God knows what dumb shite will spill out of your mouth the moment you start to feel loose.

His smile turns coy as he tilts his head. “Or I could always bring something up for you. They’ve a lovely wine list here.” 

You swallow, searching his face as he raises a questioning eyebrow at you. 

Finally, you sigh and let your head rest against the doorframe. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” 

Andrew laughs, shakes his head. “No. Unless you tell me to fuck off, of course.”

You can’t help but smile and shake your own head. “I would never. Can you give me a few minutes, though? I can’t go down looking like this.” 

He waits outside like a gentleman, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He smiles as you reappear in clothes more suitable for a public setting—merely a hoodie and a pair of jeans, but it’s good enough for a booth in the dimly lit, fairly empty hotel bar. 

You order a glass of blush wine, smirking when Andrew requests the bottle for the table instead. 

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” It’s light, airy, asked as a joke and nothing more. 

Andrew looks at you with a sly tilt of his head. “Trying to find reasons for you to stay a while.”

The answer stuns you, your face going pink as you avoid the waiter’s amused expression.

He orders a glass of Woodford Reserve, neat. When the waiter drops it off, he holds it out to you for a taste, and you hold out your wine glass in turn. The whiskey is bitter, spicy, and makes you cough into the crook of  your elbow as the amber liquid burns all the way down to your stomach. 

“Good lord,” you splutter as he grins at you. “That’ll put some hair on your chest.”

You study him as he sips from your wine glass, as he tilts his head in thought and nods to himself assuredly before commenting that it’s actually quite good despite blush wines not being his thing.

“So…” you start, hands folded on the table as you level his stare. 

“So…” he echoes as he rests his head in his hand, elbow planted firmly on the table. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

The question startles a laugh out of you. “Straight to it then, yeah?” 

He shrugs, takes another sip of his drink. “It’s not typically how I operate.” 

“Oh?” You tilt your head, an exaggeration of his own mannerisms. “And what makes me the lucky one to be graced with your focus and attention?”

Andrew chuckles. “I think you’re trying to dodge my question.” 

“And I think you’re trying to dodge mine.” You smirk before taking a sip from your glass. 

There’s a brief pause as he studies your face. “Honestly? I think my ego is a little bruised.” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he continues, “You can’t deny that you’re avoiding me, yeah? It’s been fairly obvious. And I…well, you've been on my mind, is all.” 

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. He’d been thinking of you? Apparently so, and often enough that he’s not only noticed the distance you’ve maintained from him, he’s actually hurt by it. The thought of hurting him at all makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s not personal,” you say weakly. 

“Feels personal,” he retorts. “Have I done something or said something to…I don’t know, make you not want to be around me?”

“No! No. Of course not.”

Andrew frowns. “I haven’t made you uncomfortable, have I? I try not to be too forward, but I suppose it’s the Pisces in me. Or something. Alex told me that once, I don’t know.” 

You blink. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable.” Not in the way he would expect, anyway.

His cheeks turn rosy as he runs a hand through his curls. He seems almost frustrated, as though your answers perplex him further. Andrew takes another sip from his drink, and you decide to follow suit, gulping down the last of your wine. Before you can even reach for it, Andrew takes the bottle and begins to pour a generous refill into your glass. 

You meet his eyes as he sets the bottle back down with a thud before bringing the glass up to your lips again. He watches you carefully, unable to maintain your stare as his eyes flit to your mouth, your throat, your fingers carefully curled around the stem. 

“Good. Grand.” He sighs. “If I haven’t made you…I mean, is there something else, then?” Your puzzled expression makes him frown. “Or, someone else, rather?”

The gears slowly begin to turn in your mind.

“Someone…else?” 

It must be your tone, the obvious confusion in your voice that clues him in, a look of understanding softening his features. Embarrassment quickly overtakes him as he covers his reddening face with a nervous laugh. 

“You—you’ve no idea what I’m—? Oh, Jesus…” He avoids your eyes as he slams back the remainder of his drink in one go, then sets the glass down with a wince and a grimace. “I think we may have a misunderstanding here.” 

Your own embarrassment has you speechless, mouth opening and closing as you process what he’s just said. Surely, he didn’t mean…? No, he couldn’t mean that, because things like that don’t just happen, at least not to you. Not when it’s Andrew of all people. 

It’s the wine that grips your throat and controls your voice, and you laugh incredulously as you ask, “Oh my god, do you have a crush on me?”

He groans into his hands, then smooths them back over his hair before collapsing onto the table with a laugh. His face is tinged pink with drunken embarrassment, and he smiles at you before turning to hide his face in his arms. 

“In no uncertain terms,” comes his muffled reply.

You laugh again and cover your own face, unsure of what to say. Your heart feels like it might beat out of your chest, your pulse thumping as a familiar heat begins to pool in your stomach. 

After a moment, Andrew lifts his head again and pulls himself from the table until he’s upright once more. His eyes are tinged red now, bloodshot from booze. Your own head swims as you rest your head in your hand and smile at him warmly. 

“D’you want to know why I was avoiding you?” You avert your gaze to the table, then sigh before the words tumble from your mouth. “Because you’re too fucking attractive. How am I supposed to get anything done when you walk around looking like this?”

He splutters a laugh as you gesture vaguely towards him. “Oh?” 

The wine bottle is nearly empty now as you encourage him to pour some for himself in the empty glass on the table.

“It’s terribly inconsiderate of you,” you hum, and you catch his grin before he takes a drink.

Andrew grins. “My apologies for being such a distraction. I’d no idea I caused such distress.” 

You chuckle and eye him coyly. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it distress.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Hmm…” You scrunch your face as you pretend to think. “Intrigue, certainly...and the uncanny ability to make me—” 

“Anything else for you?” The waiter’s voice startles you both, and you whip your head up to look at him wondering how much of that he heard. If he’s heard anything, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he mostly looks bored, and you can see the black booklet in his hand that surely contains the check. 

Andrew is quick to take it and scribbles in his room number for the charge, nearly shoving the booklet back into the waiter’s hands with hasty thanks. 

You’re both drunk enough to make bad decisions that you know you’ll regret come morning, but it’s difficult to care about that when he’s pressing you back against the wall in the elevator and kissing you like you’re his only source of air. When his hands are all over you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“C’mon,” he murmurs as the doors open to let you onto his floor. 

You stumble over yourself with a whispered, “Shit!” as he pulls you over the threshold of his room, and he laughs and apologizes before flipping a light on. 

Andrew is a messy creature, and his room looks as though his overnight bag spontaneously exploded while he was out. It’s weirdly charming, another reminder that he is, in fact, just a regular fucking guy with standard quirks. 

A thrill runs through you when he kisses you again, softer this time as he cradles your face in his hands. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” The question is sudden, his eyes wide as he searches for any hint of doubt. 

You’re quiet for a moment as you turn the question over in your mind. Even in an inebriated state, he’s still so concerned about your comfort, your consent. It’s unsurprising given how anxious he seems in general, but it’s sweet all the same. 

Finally, you rest a hand on his arm and look up at him with a smirk. “What I was saying earlier, about you and intrigue…well, you have a knack for making me weak in the knees, amongst other things. It’s typically based on your proximity, though.” 

You see his mouth turn up in a half-smile just before he crowds closer to you, pulling you flush against him as you wrap your arms around his neck and laugh into another kiss. 

“I don’t normally do this,” he breathes just before moving to kiss along your neck. 

“I feel like I should be the one saying that.” You gasp when he bites down, not hard enough to cause any truly lasting damage, but enough to know that you’ll still be wearing his marks come morning. A thrilling thought, though you’re sure you’ll be mobbed by the ladies and Larissa for details later on. 

Your hoodie is in the way, impeding his access, and he steps away to tug at the hem until you’re helping him peel it off. He stares at your chest, clearly surprised by your lack of bra and the way your nipples pebble beneath the thin fabric of your tank top. 

“In my defense,” you say with a smirk, “I didn’t expect all of this to happen.”

He laughs quietly as he walks you back towards the bed. “You’ll hear no complaints from me.” 

The sheets are rumpled and easily kicked away as you shuffle back on the mattress. Andrew drops kisses along chest, teeth grazing your skin and leaving little imprints. You squeak when he shoves your shirt up roughly, and he throws an apologetic look your way. 

“Sorry, just a bit enthusiastic,” he muses. 

You laugh, feeling breathless as his hands wander along your newly bared skin. 

“You’ll hear no complaints from me.” 

His responding laugh— a low, warm sound, sweet as honey—makes you blush. You gasp when he gently bites your nipple just before taking it into his mouth. It sends a shiver through you as he moves to the other, and you squirm beneath him, almost glad that you’re too drunk to really be embarrassed at the moment. 

Once your jeans are off and tossed away, Andrew freezes, his eyes greedily taking in your nearly nude body before snapping back up to meet your stare. He dips a hand beneath the waistband of your panties—a simple black pair without any details or flair, because you didn’t expect to have Andrew’s hand shoved into them like this.

He seems surprised to find you an already slick mess, his fingers dipping easily into you before pulling them back to rub your clit in slow circles. 

“I told you,” you huff a harsh laugh that breaks into a small moan. “Weak in the knees, amongst other things.” 

Andrew’s grin is obscured by his hair that curtains his face. He continues to touch you slowly, methodically, while capturing you in a kiss and swallowing down every little sound that escapes you. 

He breaks the kiss with a small gasp and asks, “What do you—how do you want to—?”

You’re far too impatient for anything that isn’t his cock inside of you right fucking now. You’re aching, feeling empty in a way that you have so many times over the past few weeks. Except this time, the object of your affections is stumbling over himself to rummage through his bag after you ask about protection. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you muse as he approaches you again with something square in hand. 

“So are you,” he shoots back, and he watches in awe as you slip your underwear off and cast them aside without batting an eye, emboldened.

He licks his lips before saying weakly, “Oh, you’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

Andrew is far too impatient to remove everything, barely able to focus on even shoving his own jeans down and hastily rolling on a condom with shaky hands. 

The feeling as he presses into you is heavenly, so full, warm, and satisfying. You bury your face into the crook of his shoulder as he sets an even pace. The slick sound of your arousal makes you blush, but it’s obvious how much it spurs him on, delighting in your body’s reaction to him, his touch, his everything.

Weeks of wishing and wanting, and now you can’t hold back your moans as he fucks you the way you’ve imagined. You can feel the way he stretches you as he fills you, and he gasps when you clench around him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes screwing shut as he takes a deep breath. 

You reach up and brush a stray curl from his face. “Are you okay?”

When he opens his eyes, he gives you a little smile and a nod. “Yeah, yes, grand,” he huffs, then lets his head fall forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder. “You feel so fucking good.” 

He grips your thigh and squeezes gently, a silent bid to get your legs around him. 

At first, he’s slow, taking his time as he kisses you between breathy laughs and whispered swears. It isn’t until you murmur, “You don’t have to treat me so preciously,” in his ear that he hums and shifts to press your legs further, damn near folding you in half. But it’s good, so fucking good, and you can barely form a thought as your eyes roll back and flutter as he picks up his pace.

And, Jesus, how are you already so close to your peak? Another testament to your seemingly insatiable desire. You cry out when he rubs a thumb against your clit roughly, out of sync with his thrusts as you press back and grind against his palm.

The stimulation is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Tears blur your vision as you let out small, sobbing moans against his neck. Each wave of pleasure has you clenching down around him.  and then he’s snapping his hips one, two, three more times before groaning in your ear while his cock twitches with his release.

Andrew is quick to collect you into his arms after collapsing next to you in bed. He reaches blindly for a blanket to tug over both of you, seemingly more of a courtesy than anything. You allow yourself to relax into him, nuzzling his shoulder before settling with your head on his chest. 

“Wow,” he says after his breathing has evened, and he laughs quietly as he squeezes you. 

“Yeah,” you hum.

There’s another stretch of silence, and your eyes begin to feel heavy as you follow the pattern of his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

Another small laugh from him stirs you, and you look up at him questioningly. 

“We’re going to feel fucking awful tomorrow, aren’t we?” 

“Oh, yeah.”

“Is a hungover breakfast a proper first date, d’you think?” 

You grin at him and lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Proper? No. But we haven’t done things by the book so far.”

[flowerysubmissive]

Hey Darlings~<3! I’m not entirely back yet, but I will be soon! I hope you all are enjoying the Holidays, I know I am! 🤭💓🎄

Santa can’t be the only one giving out gifts, and I’ve been a very good girl this year! So spoil me a bit won’t ya? 💋: https://cash.app/$LilyInk

https://venmo.com/u/Liliana-Amanita

[ohithankyou]

two of my favourite “blink and you miss it” moments of buck looking at tommy

[moochilatv]

Sara Diana presents: Filthy happy

Sara (17 years) and her a beautiful voice

filthy happy it's Sara favourite song off the EP CAN’T BE FAZED.

One of the breaking new voices you need to hear now.

Listen in YouTube here:

CAN’T BE FAZED EP it's out now

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Sara Diana💗 (@saradianamusic)

[angel4him]

Now it’s your turn to scream for me🔪💋

[houseofanticipation]

You wake because a shifting balance of weight on your bed has caused your mattress to shake. For a moment you think it must be Christmas morning—that'll be your little brother, jumping on your bed to wake you up—but your room is still dark, and the clock on your bedside table reads 12:00 exactly. You squint at the person sitting on your bed. Definitely too old to be your brother...maybe your dad? But no, this person's frame is too wide, too bulky. The figure leans forward, and it suddenly occurs to you to be afraid, but all he does is pull the chain on your bedside lamp.

The man in your room is Santa Claus.

It doesn't occur to you to think this is a man dressed as Santa. One of your classmates might; you know most people your age don't believe in him, and you've learned to hide your own belief, lest you embarrass yourself, but you've never stopped believing privately. You know this man is Santa Claus in the same way you've always known Santa Claus was real: it's a feeling in your heart, a knowledge that you are loved, no matter what. You get that same feeling from this man.

"Santa?"

"Little Susie Summers," he says, brushing a lock of hair away from your eyes. "It's so wonderful to finally see you in person. You know you're one of my favorites?"

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

He nods. "I mean it. You've kept me in your heart all these years, long after most children abandon me. I've so loved watching you grow into this beautiful, confident woman I see before me." His voice deep and warm and smooth, like hot chocolate. His eyes glitter behind half-moon glasses, and his enormous white mustache only accentuates his fatherly smile.

"I always knew you were real," you say, breathlessly, eager to impress. "Even when everyone called me names, I kept believing. I always stayed on my best behavior for you."

"I know you did," he says. "I have your list right here." Seemingly from nowhere, he produces a length of rolled up parchment, which he begins to unfurl as he reads. "All those times you helped young Cristopher with his homework, even when you wanted to go out with your friends...the way you check in on old Mrs. Rasherton every week...you're a real paragon of your community."

Your chest swells with pride. You'd do those things anyway, of course; goodness is its own reward. But it feels so wonderful to have your good deeds recognized by this man you so idolize.

"Of course, you've had some encounters with the naughty list, too. What child doesn't? That time at camp, for instance, when you allowed Trent Lipski to touch you under your underwear?"

You can feel your cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, Santa. I tried to be extra good to make up for it."

"Or those times in the bathtub, when you put your private parts under the faucet?"

You look away. You can't stand the disappointment in his eyes. "I'm so sorry Santa."

You feel his hand on your cheek, gently pulling your gaze back to meet his. "Don't worry, Susie. No one can be perfectly good all the time, and your good deeds have vastly outweighed the bad. You are a good girl, Susie Summers, and that's why I'm here."

"Really?"

"Yes, my dear girl. You see, you're eighteen now and—"

"Almost eighteen," you say helpfully. Your birthday is January 7th.

"Close enough," he says. "You're growing into a woman, which means this is the last year I'll be able to bring you presents."

This comes as a surprise. You always known Santa Claus brought presents to children, but it never quite occurred to you that that meant he didn't bring presents to adults. "You mean...you'll never come here for me again?"

"I'm afraid so," he says sadly. "This will have to be goodbye. But because you've been such a good girl all these years, I've brought you one final parting gift, in addition to the ones below the tree downstairs."

"Really? What is it?"

His hand is on your thigh, caressing you gently. "You've been so good for me, Susie," he says. "I want to make you feel good. I want you to be extra good for me, one last time." His other hand is on your stomach now, furry white glove slipping under your sleep shirt. You're starting to be unsure if you want this gift, but you know it's rude to act ungrateful. "Can you be good for me, Susie?"

You nod nervously.

Slowly, one finger at a time, Santa slips the gloves off his hands. The skin underneath is like aged leather, wrinkly and soft. You gasp when he lifts up your shirt. "Look at this," he says, fondling your nipples. "Already so hard. I knew you had a naughty side to you."

No. You can't. You push his hands away, gently as you can. "I'm sorry Santa, I'm flattered, really, but I can't—"

Santa makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and all of a sudden your hands are being yanked back, toward the headboard. Some kind of cuffs clamp around your wrists, holding your arms far away from Santa's creeping, explorative hands. You look to your left and right, and see that they're not cuffs at all, but arms; thin, sinewy arms attached to a pair of thin, sinewy people no bigger than your forearm. They stare at you with large, unblinking eyes, and grin with mouths full of pointy teeth. They're strong, in spite of their size. You struggle against them with all your might, but neither seems remotely phased.

"You're a lucky girl, Susie," he says, playfully circling your areola with his thumb. "Most boys and girls never get to see a genuine Christmas elf. Meet Pepper and Ginger, two of my most trusted lieutenants. I could never do my job without their help."

The elf called Ginger—you can tell which is which because they wear name tags reading G. BREAD and P. MINT—pins your hand to the bed and sits on your wrist. She closes her eyes and begins grinding against the nub of your wrist bone.

Santa chuckles. "Of course, I make sure they get to enjoy themselves. I think that's the hallmark of any good boss, don't you?" He bends down and wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking and nibbling and groping at your other breast while he does it. You're afraid, but it feels kind of good, too. And you know Santa has your best interests at heart...doesn't he? When he comes up for air, Santa sees the tears running down your cheeks. "Oh, hush now, my dear, don't cry." He lays a tender hand on your face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "I promise I'll be gentle with you. I'll make you feel good." He gets up on his knees and unbuckles his belt, pulling down his red pants to reveal white thermal underwear. This he unbuttons, and out comes...

You've seen a penis once before. Earlier this year, Daryl Dennis let you touch his at a party. You held it in your hand and stroked it up and down, delighting in the way he moaned and kissed you and told you how good it felt. When he came on your hand it snapped you out of whatever madness had taken you over, and you fled the room to wash it off. You hated yourself for weeks after that, tried to work extra hard to earn your place on the good list.

Suffice it to say, Santa's cock is about three times the size as the only other cock you've ever seen. It stands up so stiff that it actually touches his overhanging belly, and defined veins pulse up and down its length. He smiles when he sees you looking at it. "You came so close to letting Mr. Dennis be the first cock you ever felt inside you. I wish you could stay pure forever, but you're becoming a woman now. You should at least know what a real cock is like, so you have something to compare against."

He hooks his fingers under your waistband and pulls off your pajama bottoms and you panties all in one go. You're too afraid to fight back; those elves' teeth are sharp, and besides, you've spent so long trying to stay off the naughty list. A good girl would lie back and take it. You are a good girl. You are a good girl.

Santa's head is between your legs now. He's kissing your thighs, sniffing deeply, running his tongue along the outside edges of your crotch. One hand strokes his cock, and you can see he speeds up when his nose gets close to your pussy. "You know, Susie, I've found in all my years of life that the sweetest girls have the sweetest cunts. Did you know that?"

You shake your head.

"It's true. And you just might be the sweetest girl I've ever seen. So you can imagine how eager I've been to get a taste of this perfect, beautiful cunt. Let's get your juices flowing, shall we?" You gasp as his leathery fingers pinch the hood of your clitoris and pull it back, and a sound you didn't expect escapes your lips when his wet, warm tongue flicks across your exposed clit. He starts to trace slow, steady circles around it, taking his time, letting the desire build until your clit is throbbing with need. His moustache tickles your pubis as he closes his lips around your clit and begins sucking, first in long, slow pulls, and ramping up into quick, agonizing pulses. You begin to feel that feeling in your groin, the one you felt when you touched Daryl Dennis's cock, or when Trent Lipski put his hand in your pants, or when you hold your privates under the bathtub faucet. It's a tightness, a warmth, a wetness, and Santa must notice it too, because he smiles up at you. "Good girl. Let's find out what you taste like."

Suddenly his tongue is inside you, and you're moaning and arching your back and crying a little bit, because you're so scared but it feels so good. The elves grin and give you little kisses on your arms. Somewhere along the way Ginger has removed her pants, and she moans as her little elf pussy glides across your wrist. On the other side, Pepper's hands are on your pinky, lining it up with her exposed cunt, drooling as she pushes it inside.

When Santa comes up for air his glasses hang crooked on his face. "Hoooh, Susie, you must have the sweetest cunt I've ever tasted. Like caramel apples and candy canes. You really are one of the nicest girls who's ever lived."

You can't help but swell with pride at this praise. You've tried, really tried, and to know that it's paid off...it makes everything worth it. All the work, all the self-sacrifice, it wasn't for nothing. It's left a real, detectable mark on your body, and Santa can taste it in you. "Thank you, Santa," you manage to say.

"You're very welcome, Susie," says Santa. "And now that you're ready for me, I think it's time I made use of you." He straightens up, and flops his cock down on your stomach. It feels even bigger against your skin. You're afraid again. You know what's about to happen, and you're afraid it's going to hurt.

He throws his head back and moans with pleasure as the head of his cock parts your pussy lips. Your teeth grit and your heart pounds as you brace yourself for the pain, but it doesn't come. When he begins to push inside you, it's like he's stretching you out from the inside. There's no pain, only pressure, and increasingly, pleasure. He fills you up an inch at a time, expanding inside you, making you feel full in a way you never knew you could. You never should have doubted Santa. He knows what's best for you. He knows what you need.

"Ooohoho god, Susie," he says, picking up the pace now. "I knew you'd be worth it. I always know which good little girls will have the most delectable cunts. Girls like you, natural whores who make the choice to be nice, deny their nature to be sweet just for me...saving yourself for me...you know, somewhere deep down, that your little cunt is mine for the taking..."

He's right. He's completely right. When you fled the room after Daryl Dennis came in your hand. When you felt so guilty after Trent Lipski. What were you saying, implicitly? My holes are not for him. My holes are for Santa. You're moaning indiscriminately now, arching your back, your eyes rolling back in your head. The elves seem to be enjoying themselves, too; they moan squeakily as they ride your hands, apparently no longer worried about you trying to fight back. Santa's belly rolls across you with each thrust, and the heft of it is like a weighted blanket, comfortingly immobilizing. He grunts and moans with each thrust, the ball on his hat bouncing haphazardly. You feel something growing inside you, something wonderful and intense, something far better than the faucet on your clit, or Trent Lipski's fingers in your cunt. Your body is beginning to tremble, your legs bending and your toes flexing involuntarily. Suddenly you're afraid again; the sensation is too much, you can't handle it, you need to get away. Some animal part of your brain takes over; you're wrenching your hands free of the distracted elves, pulling yourself away from Santa's relentless cock, flailing your legs, kicking Santa in the solar plexus as he tries to grab at you. He doubles over, wheezing, and you know instantly you've done something terrible.

For a long moment the room is stock still. The elves seem just as frozen in fear as you are. Santa coughs, steadies himself against the bed. When he looks up, there's a darkness behind his eyes that wasn't there before. He clicks his tongue again, and the elves spring into action, grabbing you by the hair and turning you around so that your head hangs backward over the edge of the bed.

"I was going to give you a special present," says Santa, upside-down over you. There's a sick mirth in his voice that makes you shiver. "A Christmas present like no one's ever gotten before. But you had to go and be naughty." He says the word like it's the most vulgar epithet he can think of. "I was going to give you a son. My son. My heir. But my seed can't grow in a womb despoiled by filth." You feel a pressure inside you; it feels sort of like Santa's cock did, only harder, rounder, and growing. You lift your head to see what's going on down there, but it's all internal. It's getting painful now; you start straining to push it out. "The only thing your cunt is good for now," says Santa, a merciless twinkle in his eye, "is coal."

With a painful stretching sensation, a black mass crowns out of your cunt, spreading your pussy lips and stretching them wide as it pops out of you. It's a smooth, roughly spherical lump of coal, about the size of a baseball.

A leathery hand cups your chin and pushes your head back down. Santa's cock is inches from your face. "You're not going cocktease me, naughty girl. I'll get mine, one way or another."

Tears well up in your eyes as his cock parts your lips. You've never gotten coal in your stocking before, not once. You've spent your entire life being the nicest you could possibly be, and you had to go and ruin everything. You imagine what it would have been like to have Santa's seed growing inside you, your belly swelling with his son, your breasts inflating with peppermint-flavored milk. Instead you have his wrinkly, low-hanging scrotum slapping your face, and another lump of coal already forming inside your stupid, naughty cunt.

Santa forces his cock past your tongue, down your open throat. You gag, convulse involuntarily, but the elves hold you down, not to be caught slacking again. His belly drags across your face as he pulls back, and you spend a few seconds coughing and sputtering before he forces himself back down your throat again. Again, you gag, and when he pulls out this time you spit out a globule of thick saliva that collects around your nose and runs down your cheek. It goes like this for several more pumps: you gagging, struggling, crying, and him continuing to rape your throat anyway.

No, you think. Enough crying. You did something naughty, and now you pay for it. What do you always do when you catch yourself slipping into naughtiness? You're extra good to make up for it.

You steady yourself. Relax your throat. Santa is your king. Your god. Your everything. Your whole life, everything you do has been to please Santa. Now is no different. You start licking his shaft as it pounds away at your mouth. You can't see his face past his belly, but you can tell he likes it: the veins on his cock bulge under your tongue, and he groans with pleasure. Slowly, making sure the elves know you're not trying to fight, you lift your arms and grab the backs of his thighs, pulling him into you with each thrust. He takes the encouragement, picking up speed and enthusiasm. With one hand you begin to tenderly massage his balls, and with the other you stroke the base of his cock, the part that can't fit all the way down your throat. This is right. This is correct. My holes are for Santa, you think again. It's not for you to choose how he uses them.

You pop out another two lumps of coal, though you find that if you don't let them get too big it can be a somewhat pleasurable experience. You wonder how many nice things you'll have to do to stop them coming. You hope it isn't too easy. You moan as another one presses against your clit on its way out of you. You're desperate to rub yourself, but you can't take any attention away from Santa's beautiful, enormous, swollen, throbbing cock. That is your purpose.

With a long, shuddering groan, Santa presses his cock as deep as it will go. You feel hot cum shooting down your throat, collecting in your esophagus. He holds you there for a long time, your face in his overhanging belly, coal growing in your cunt. When he finally retreats you cough a huge glob of cum into your mouth. It tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg.

"Oh, little Susie," says Santa admiringly. "Even when you're being punished, you try your best to be nice." He sits next to you on the bed and begins gently massaging your throat. "It isn't enough to put you back on the nice list, but it's a start." He seems to think long and hard about something. "I'm a believer in second chances, Susie. I'll have to come back to this house next year for your brother anyway. Maybe I'll check in on you, and if you've been extra good..." he shoots you a twinkling wink. "I just might give you your special present after all."

Your head falls back in relief. You haven't squandered your chance! Santa is a merciful and loving god! The elves lay their heads on your breasts, petting your skin and cooing approvingly. The next thing you know, Santa is pulling up his pants, tucking in his undershirt, buckling his belt. He puts his hand on the knob of your bedroom door, but he turns back over his shoulder before he goes.

"Susie...you were right. Your holes are mine. No other cock, nor finger or tongue or any part of another person may penetrate them. But now that you're a woman...I believe it would be alright if you touched yourself, if you like. And know that I'll be watching." With that he's out the door, Pepper and Ginger in tow.

You get into a comfortable position in bed, head on your pillows, legs spread. You're slowly amassing a small pile of coal on your bedspread, and you're ready to go for another. You let this one grow a little while inside you, expanding until you can't take it anymore, then arch your back and close your eyes and furiously rub your clit as you birth it.

As a ball of coal the size of a small cantaloupe rolls to a stop on your sheets, your bedside clock clicks over to 12:01.

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

good night and sweet dreams to the best, sexiest, sluttiest, smartest, realest, most based, valid, relatable, girlipop, sympathetic, cunt, fun, cool, feminist, aspirational girlboss character in dead boy detectives: doll spider <3

good night to her and no one else. i hope the rest of y’all have a bad night and terrible dreams.

[welcometogrouchland]

No offense but I want Hunter to brag about him and willow next episode I don't care how out of character it is.

I want Eda to exorcise Belos out of puppet!Raine's body and for Hunter to stand over the shambling, melting corpse of the man who abused him and scream "you think you could hurt me? You think you could keep me down? Kill me? WELL YOU CAN'T. AND I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT AFTER I AROSE FROM THE GRAVE, I GOT A GIRLFRIEND. WE HELD HANDS FOR 3 WHOLE SECONDS. YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, 3! YOU TRIED TO LEAVE MY BODY RIDDLED WITH SCARS??? JOKES ON YOU! SHE THINKS THAT'S HOT!!!!!! HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES, "UNCLE"???!!!!!" With Zeno doing his best unhinged hunter voice as Caleb fucking Fortnite dances in the background and Belos thrashes about in pain at the mention of premarital hand holding

[cum-a-calla]

erm… predatory/prey play with roman in the workplace……

everyone is gone, like the building is CLOSED closed. he tries to corner his assistant (because duh) and be like hey… what if you let me fuck you? and she just slips her heels off and just. books it.

it’s all in good fun, until it’s not. hopefully no one sees the security footage of him dragging her back into his office by her ankles.

and then he [redacted] her [redacted] until they [redacted]. goodbye 2024.

“I’m bored.”

“Try… I don’t know. Doing some of the paperwork we have to get through. We only have to be here until everything is looked over, signed, filed…” You sigh a long, frustrated sigh, leaning on the desk with your head in your hands. “Roman. You have to throw me a fuckin’ bone, here.” The hour runs so late that everyone else is gone on this floor, only the two of you left. You’re not tired, necessarily, just so utterly over all this paperwork.

Roman smirks at his place behind his desk, flicking his gaze to you from his computer screen. He lifts an eyebrow. “I could throw you a bone.”

A glare has him giggling to himself, that infuriatingly high little inward laugh he does when he’s feeling smug, or clever. It’s actually kind of attractive in an odd way… but so many things about Roman are. It pisses you off. He shouldn’t be allowed to be so smarmy and careless and just… look like that all the time. Roman’s eyes are on yours again and it becomes humiliatingly clear that you’ve just been staring at him, tracing the planes and lines of his handsome features. He turns a little, giving you his full attention now. Tracing his fingertip along some of the papers on his desk. Knowing you’ll watch.

“Oh… are you thinkin’ about it?” Roman licks the edge of his teeth, grinning. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you. I mean… nobody’s here, right?”

“Fuck off,” you say softly. A flush rises up your throat and you roll your eyes, ripping another sheet off the top of the stack to parse through it. “You wish.”

“No… no, I think you wish. I do.” Roman rises up from his chair and you’re forced to look up at him, hands freezing as you move to sign a report. “I think you give me those fuck-me eyes all the time. As if I don’t notice. Oh - don’t make that face. I notice, sweetheart. I know when I’m stuck inside somebody’s mind… stuck tight.”

You feel a strange sort of… something. Something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, just the way Roman’s standing up right now. Looming over his desk. Moving to walk around the edge. Out of pure instinct, you stand as well, palms on the surface as you rise up. Roman’s eyes are glittering, pupils wide and only getting wider.

“Roman…-”

“We should,” he says. “Fuck, I mean. You should let me bend you over this desk. Or… I mean, you could get down on your knees. I could get down on mine, whatever - equal opportunity fucking, right? I’m told I give some serious lip.”

He advances slowly, smoothly, like an animal as you edge toward the door. He’s smiling, but it’s not actually a smile at all. A wolf licking its chops. Your pulse quickens, a surge of adrenaline making your fingers tremble a little. Roman refuses to back down, his voice drawing lower, quieter, trying to hypnotize you like a cat with his words.

“Bad move, sweetheart. I can run. Probably had no idea, but all I did in fucking military school was get screamed at and run. I will catch you.”

Your breath catches in your throat and it’s then that the slice of fear starts mingling with something else, stomach doing flips. A spreading warmth seems to fill the basin of your hips, all that smoldering heat matching the fever-spots of flush in your cheeks. You slip off your heels, grateful for the carpeting - wearing thin tights might not fare so well on a hard, slippery floor while being chased. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? He’s going to chase you. A tiny shiver zips up your spine.

“I’m gunna give you a head start, just to level the -”

Before he can finish, you’re taking off. His laughter trails behind you, and after turning a corner in the endless rows of cubicles, you drop to your hands and knees and crawl, moving another couple rows over like that, holding your breath. There’s a manic thrill bouncing around inside your body, making you shake as you scuttle underneath a desk, both hands pressed over your own mouth. Somewhere nearby, there are soft, light scuffing sounds as he walks. Barely there, hard to discern. If he’s taken his shoes off, you’re fucked.

After a few agonizing minutes of trying to figure out his location by sound, he walks by. The sight of his legs walking away from you almost makes you gasp - almost. God, you can feel your pulse behind your fucking eyeballs. You inch forward little by little on your hands and knees on the carpet. Roman’s still slowly walking the other way. You rise up to a stand for only a fleeting moment before you stumble over your own goddamn feet, making a little sound as you land roughly on your hands and knees again. There’s a moment frozen in time in which you turn your head sharply to face Roman, and he looks behind his shoulder and sees you. There’s a flash of surprise on his face before he’s smirking, turning fully around, and you only make it a couple of steps before his fingers are digging into the collar of your shirt, yanking you back so that you fall down again, this time on your ass.

Limbs are pinwheeling for purchase - you twist in his grasp and he’s on top of you, laughing, practically panting with excitement. In a moment of blind panic, you slap him in the face and he reels a little. In that moment you scramble up and start running again, and he’s on your fucking heels. His laughter titters just behind you and it makes you giggle in return, giddy with the chase, with the weird combination of fear and arousal and anxiety making you throb. You throb everywhere - your pulse finds a loud, pounding home in the tip of your nose, your chest… your cunt.

Wheeling around a corner too fast, you trip again. Roman’s absolutely beside himself, laughing at you as he leans down and grabs your ankles.

“Hey, you really gave it your all,” he commends, voice dripping with derision. He flashes you a grin, all teeth as he starts dragging you backwards. You try to kick and wiggle, but Roman’s stronger than he looks - he has you in a solid grip, clucking his tongue at you. “No, none of that - you had your chances. I win, and I’m going to cum in your little cunt about it. Okay? That was the deal.”

Your skirt rides up and so does your blouse, everything coming untucked and rucking up. The carpet burns as he drags you across it, and you hiss as you squirm to escape it. Roman watches with a hint of amusement, uninterested in your struggle or your discomfort. He drags you all the way across the floor back to his office, and when you try to clutch at the door frame, Roman is swift to toss your legs to the side and take a step closer to kick it away. He finishes hauling you fully into the office and shuts the door, turning to you with his eyes all hooded and dark, cheeks red with excitement. The both of you tremble, the both of you utterly consumed by a manic sort of adrenaline high.

“Well, it’s not being bent over a desk, but - but I kinda like this better. More intimate, yeah? I get to watch you cum all over my cock. Lucky me - and lucky you,” he purrs, pushing your thighs open. When you lift yourself up on your elbows, he yanks your arms down by the wrists. “Dont. Give it up, honey - the struggle is really nice, don’t get me wrong. Cuuute, just fuckin’ cute as shit. But I’m getting impatient.”

He releases you to reach between your thighs, where he pulls at the fabric of your tights with both hands and rips them open down the center.

“Gotta invest in something that doesn’t get sold from a fuckin’ Walmart, babydoll. That was so easy it was barely fun.”

“Fuck you,” you mumble.

“Oh, you will.” Roman takes a moment to pull your underwear to the side. He runs his fingers along your slit, tracing the edges and folds of your pussy as he spreads it open, looking at it, barely teasing your clit. “You know how wet you are? Dripping. How fucking sad is that? Are you - oh, am I pissing you off? Making you all upset? You look like you wanna hit me. You wanna hit me again?”

You glare at him, opening your lips to say something about it when he laughs, shoving his fingers inside of you without warning, curling them, pumping them with a precision that has your glare dissolving. Moans take away all the words you had. Roman looks positively triumphant - he fucks them a little harder, a little faster, relishing the way you make those stupid, breathy sounds, the look on your face indistinguishable from pain. It excites him to think of that, too - hurting you a little.

“God, if you’re this fuckin’ whiny for my fingers, you’re really gunna love what comes next,” he murmurs.

Then you do slap him - but it can barely be called a slap at all. The impulse comes, you run with it in the heat of the moment, and a second too late you pull the slap a little and it barely registers. He blinks a little in surprise, fingers paused in their rhythm. He fucks them into you even harder as his eyes bore into yours, that delicate, angry vein showing on his forehead. His free hands rests on your inner thigh, gripping the flesh there. Keeping you spread.

“Not great,” he deadpans. “Try it again. This time, do it like you give a fuck about doing something right for once.”

You can do that. You can do that very well, and the crack of your open palm against the same cheek stings your hand. The flush to his face is immediate, and his eyes look black as he yanks his fingers out of your body again and he slaps you back with the same hand. He smiles as he watches you wipe your own cum off your cheek, tears welling up in your lashes. He tilts his head and pouts a little, undoing his slacks and pushing them down his hips. His cock bounces free, and the sight of it catches you completely off guard. It’s not that you’d ever had an expectation, or a particularly specific thought as to his size, but he is surprisingly thick. Long. His smooth, rippled cockflesh laced with veins. He grins, stroking it once or twice, and fuck, it looks gorgeous in his fingers like that as he teases himself.

“Yeah, I mean… at least I didn’t slap you with this, right? You wouldn’t even be conscious for what I’m about to do to you. But, you know… maybe another time.”

“Roman, seriously - you’re gunna have to… you know, take it - take it easy, okay?”

Roman’s eyes get absolutely dreamy, shining in the dimmed light and hooded by his lovely, low eyelids, wet lips parted as he crawls up over you. He leans in and lowers down until he can brush his lips just barely against yours, more a tease than anything else. He tilts his head and licks a wet stripe from the edge of your jaw up to your cheekbone, planting a wet, sloppy kiss there.

“Don’t you worry about that.” He reaches between your bodies and runs the fat, leaking head of his cock along your slit, slowly, up and down, back again. Every couple passes, he pushes the tip deliciously against your hole, rocking there but only barely. There’s a crease between his focused brows when he lifts to watch your expression, moving to keep your gaze even when you get embarrassed. “Look at you, all fuckin’ wriggly and full of shame. You getting desperate, sweetheart? Yeah? Wanna ask me for it?”

“Roman…”

“Mhmm?” Roman nuzzles playfully into your neck and nips at your throat, once, twice, a third time - this time hard enough to make you whine in that adorable way, your hips twitching. He chooses this moment to work more of himself in - only maybe an inch, just a little further, where he rocks infuriatingly slow again as he sucks a deep, dark bruise into your skin. He can’t wait to see what you do with that tomorrow - how you’re going to cover it up. But he’ll know. He’ll know it’s there. “Hey - go ahead. Ask for what you want.”

“Can you.. uh,” you mumble, nerves crashing under the sheer overload of sensation, of throbbing need. God, the entire fucking thing - the fear, the chase, the force, Roman being an insatiable goddamn beast hellbent on destroying you; it’s enough to melt your brain. But if finding a few more words is all that stands between you and the rest, then… “Can you please give me… more?”

“More of my cock?” Roman starts edging more of himself inside, a smooth, slow rolling of his hips, undulating. Each little thrust brings him closer to home, and you’re gasping. He fastens his lips to a new spot on your neck, at the juncture of your shoulder. “Just trying to take it easy, right? Be patient - you’ll get it all, honey.”

Finally, he’s worked himself balls-deep. He rolls so softly, so very tenderly against your cervix, the tip of his thick cock kissing against it over and over in a maddeningly erotic tease. Is it still a tease if there’s no room left to fuck into? He pushes your thighs open and lifts himself up a little, looking down at you. His cheeks are as flushed as yours. You’ve never noticed just how many freckles he has over his cheeks and nose, how they dot him delicately like a surreal expanse of dark stars in a pink sky.

“Touch yourself. Make yourself cum, just like this.”

Zero hesitation - you push your hand down between your thighs, between your bodies, and expertly circle your clit with your fingers. The natural clench against the stretch of him feels otherworldly. The bright, electric sensation of stimulation on the soft cusp of your cervix adds an entirely new layer to it; it’s sharp, but pleasantly so. You sneak a peek between your bodies at the way he rolls his hips, down to where he only slightly moves in and out of you. He keeps you impossibly full. You let your head fall back down and catch his smug lips, the way he licks them.

“Fuck… I’m close,” you whine.

“I know… I know.” God, he almost sounds kind. If you weren’t looking directly at him, you’d believe it. “Do it for me. You’re this tight already… I wanna know what it feels like to have your perfect little pussy milk me dry. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to empty my fucking balls into you, you know that?”

“Oh - fucking…- shit-” Your entire body seems to seize up, and all that molten, coiled tension melts in a series of devastating waves, pulsating, rushing from behind your eyes all the way down to your toes as he continues to rock into you like that through the crash of your orgasm. His breathing gets erratic and he’s leaning down to lick at your throat. After you move your hand to cling to him, he starts to really fuck into you, rearing back just to slam his cock back inside. Suddenly you’re skating on the shockwave of a brand new explosion of pleasure as he sees fit to set a punishing new pace. The curve of his cock finally tends to all those barely-touched nerves in his full, brutal strokes, balls audibly slapping against your body.

“Yeah - keep fucking cumming. It’s okay, I know - it’s a lot to take. You’re doing so good - look at you. Like you were made to take my cock, huh, baby? I’m gunna fill you up, okay? You ready?” His voice is drawn high, soothing, making your head spin as you try to fit the tone of his voice with the sly, mean smirk on his lips. He reaches a hand up and presses his fingers against your lips, sliding two of them over your tongue. “Good girl - good fucking girl.”

The feeling of your lips and tongue on his fingers, the sounds you make, the way you keep clenching around him - it’s the perfect storm. His hips falter at the same time his moans do, and his cock is pulsing inside of you. He pushes deep, fingers matching as they wander toward the back of your throat until you whine, gagging, grabbing at his wrist to stop him. Your teeth scrape his knuckles and he shudders as he moans, rutting his hips in time with each thick spurt of his cum. There’s a wonderful sort of haze where both of your bodies are coming down, muscles relaxing. The beginning of the afterglow. Roman removes his fingers as his body stills, dick softening inside of you. He sticks those fingers into his own mouth without even thinking about it, tasting you, your saliva. Finally he separates from your body and pats the inside of your thigh, giving it a strangely affectionate squeeze. It feels more intimate than everything else you’ve done, in some weird way: the way he didn’t look at you when sucking your saliva off his fingers, the tenderness of the squeeze. Those things go quietly inside of you, somewhere else to peruse later. Things Roman wouldn’t really want you to have; accidental gifts.

“That was…” you trail off, exhaling hard to convey your feelings. You laugh a little bit, a bit of tension releasing as you do. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do all that… you can just call me Roman Roy,” he cracks, smiling wryly. He sighs and pulls himself together, running a hand through his mussed hair before it falls right back into his eyes. “I know, I know. Big ol’ fuckin’ hog, devilishly handsome, and hilarious? I’m the entire goddamn package.”

“Don’t forget filthy rich.”

Roman shakes his head and bows slightly to you, hand outstretched as if giving you the floor. “And filthy rich. If I could just fuck and marry myself, I would. Now, uh… is your back okay? Got a little… scraped up, yeah? You need some, like, Neosporin or some shit?”

“Yeah, in fact - could you also bring me some Mickey Mouse bandaids, maybe a lollipop? Some stickers? I’m fine, Roman… thanks, though.”

“Show you a fuckin’ lollipop,” Roman mutters, running his hands over his face. He snaps his fingers, fidgety, gesturing toward the door. “Come on, let’s get the fuck outta here. Fuck the papers. I’ll make somebody else finish it tomorrow. I don’t care. Romey tired.”

Roman places a chaste hand at the base of your spine, guiding you through the doors to end the evening. There’s a comfortable silence as you separate, Roman heading for his car while you go off to your own apartment in the opposite direction. Closer to arriving home, your phone dings. Roman’s name shows up and you ignore the tiny wisp of a thrill in your gut at seeing his name there inside your phone, not having reached out first.

Overtime required tomorrow. My shopper will have new tights for you - you’re welcome. Make it worth it. -R