#not the rigger

[maenecoon]

i may or may not have a reverse kidnapping fic idea that i've been brewing up the past week or so -- just deciding how things will go and how i should proceed with some stuff but here's a teeny snippet!

(for context: chay is a low-level gang member that has been hired to kidnap wik. chay doesn't know wik is kimhant theerapanyakun, aka third son of the most powerful crime syndicate in thailand. so that's fun!!)

Chay and Wik, trapped in a three-by-two-meter space.

Soon, the engine starts with a low hum, and the truck starts to move. Wik’s slump figure, seated against the side of the wall, lolls his head toward the metal flooring. Without a thought Chay’s fingers curl around his idol’s unnecessarily-toned bicep, tipping him to rest against Chay’s shoulders instead.

“You're too pretty to get hurt, P’Wik,” Chay mutters, as though he isn't part of the group who’s put Wik in this situation to begin with. Sighing a soft apology, he picks up the rope and starts attempting to tie.

Wik’s hands are rough, the backs of them littered with veins bulging in ways enough to make Chay blush, the soft of his palms filled with guitar callouses and other blisters. He holds them for a few moments, letting himself indulge in the fantasy of itー it's all so fucked up that this is the way he's finding out how Wik’s hand feels against his.

Shame burns bright and hot in the space between their palms and Chay jerks his hand away, moving to grip his wrists instead. Still he struggles to hold them together with one hand as he loops the rope around them with his other hand, fingers clumsy and slow.

[chocolatewoosh]

[egophiliac]

Do yoy like their silly little dance

the inside of my brain at any given moment:

[curiosity-killed-me]

[girliism]

art likes to tie girls up end of story.

something about the way the rope sinks into the skin, how soft and subby you get as art works his hands over your body tying various knots and loops around your body.

art’s got you suspended in the air, hook connect d to the ropes on your arms. your body was L shaped your feet in a perfect point and your core working overtime to keep your body stable. art ties the last knot nestling it behind your ankles. art has to take a step back and admire his work from afar, the start to finish of tying you up was just as therapeutic for art as it was for you.

everything was so much more heighten when you were tied up like this hanging from the air. the sound of art’s shoes hitting the floor echoed in your mind and when his fingers trailed over your skin you immediately got goosebumps. art stood in front of you, your eyes closed, face relaxed, and breath steady, as if you were sleeping. “look at me.” art lifted your head, you opened your eyes to see him looking down at you. you wanted to greet him but you tongue felt heavy so all you could do was stare up at him eyes glassy. “how are you feeling sweet girl?” art ran his thumb over your lips before pointing it into mouth to rub your tongue. “m’feeling green.” art smiled at you, removing his finger and bending down to place a kisses on cheeks, your forehead, your chin. then a soft one on your lips.

when art made his way back behind you you had dripped all over the place, pussy all wet leaking down your thighs. “such a messy girl.” he fake scolded getting to his knees. “have to clean you up.” you let out a moan feeling art’s tongue lick a fat strip up your cunt. art didn’t clean you up though only got you more messy. the sound of arts belt unbuckling and his zipper unzipping made you gush even more. art slide is dick up and down your pussy teasing his tip at your hole. you hated when he teased you like this. “please sir can i have your cock?” art could hear the desperation in your voice and didn’t waste any time pushing in. he pulled his cock out and slammed in back in. “always so greedy.” he grunted.

“s-sir.” your head gets pulled back by your hair. “can feel you so deep in me feels - oh fuck oh - feels so good.” you babble. your moans and whines egging art on to keep fucking you harder, faster. “think your pussy was made for me bunny. squeezing all tight around my cock.” art lets the hand not holding your slide down to rub at your clit. the feeling of art playing with you and how his cock was punching in and out of your cunt had you on the verge. the way your body was tensed and how you were squeezing him tighter and tighter art knew you were about to cum. “you’re so close aren’t you? wanna cum for me.” you nodded your head the best you come. “yes yes, - oh - can’t hold it please can i cum? please sir?” little tears were falling down your face as you struggled to wait for art’s permission. “cum down my cock for me baby.” the knot forming in your stomach finally snapped as loud moan came out of you.

art gave you zero time to recover from your orgasm as he moves his hand from holding your hair to holding your throat, now fucking you with his own orgasm in mind. you were whining from the overstimulation and art was moaning loudly behind you. “look at you taking me well - shit - so good for me.” the praises made you body heat up. after a few hard thrust art was cumming in you staying there for a while locked inside.

after catching his breath art was quick to cut you down, picking you up bridal style and carrying your back you the master bedroom.

art wiped you down with a warm wet rag saving your face for last. “you did so good for me.” he gently wiped off your face before tying your hair back into a ponytail. your shot out to grab his when you saw him get up. “ no, where are you going?” you sound like you were gonna cry. it was like this with you every time after you and art played, you not wanting him to leave your side. “i’m just going to get some things for you, can you wait for me? i’ll be right back.” art’s voice was soft and you trusted he would be right back like he said so you like him go.

true his word art comes back with water and a few snacks. “you know you’re so good for me, always so good.” art lays kisses to the side of your face while you took big gulps of the water he handed you. “thank you.” your face blushed a little. the two of you fell asleep like that, you pressed into art’s warm body as if trying to fuse together, art running his hands over your body whispering never ending praises to you.

[nefarrilou]

Prompt: Hallowed Ground 🕯💐 Olive's Iron Stone Throne

Beautifully remade Olive Specter by @gunthermunch 🥀

✦ Olive Specter ⊱ Hair | Collar | Blouse | Skirt | Shoes ✦ Ichabod Specter ⊱ Hair | Glasses | Top | Pants ✦ Rigger Mortis ⊱ Hair | Beard | Glasses | Top | Pants | Shoes ✦ Hugh Thanasia ⊱ Hair | Top* | Pants ✦ Earl E. DeMise ⊱ Hair | Glasses | Jacket + Top | Pants | Shoes

*Eco Lifestyle

✦ Simblreen 2023 [ x ]

➺ Ghastly Ghosts Mod by @chippedscreationcorner! 👻

C R E A T O R S

Olive @simtric @evellsims @rustys-cc @adrienpastel-blog

Ichabod @birksche @laeska @nell-le

Rigger @mmsims @nucrests

Hugh @solistair

Earl @qrqr19 @aharris00britney @madameriasims4 @sentate @wyattssims

[muddyoveralls90]

[plumbtales]

Olive Specter's three marriages.

[pile-of-skulls]

Not to be a stereotypical cowboy but I need to take them out into a field under the stars and hogtie them so they can look up at the moon while I slide in. Tell Lady Selene how good I’m making you feel, gorgeous, she’s heard all about you, tell her about me.

[veryloovy]

It's honestly really fun to see the show staff talk about V and Lizzy in a romantic light. It doesn't make them canon canon but it does make me feel validated that my pet crack ship for this show is as close to canon as it's gonna get without Liam's word on the matter.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

These people are despicable.

https://x.com/KanekoaTheGreat/status/1744886186722971731?s=20

BREAKING Fani Willis visited Biden's White House for five hours on Feb. 28, 2023, one week after recommending charges against Donald Trump. Yesterday, court records revealed that Nathan Wade, Fani Willis's lead prosecutor, met with Biden's White House Counsel on May 23 and Nov. 18, 2022, before indicting Trump. Fani Willis's lead prosecutor billed taxpayers $4,000 to talk to Joe Biden's White House Counsel for sixteen hours about prosecuting Biden's leading political opponent. H/T @MHowellTweets @KanekoaTheGreat

Now I Ain't Sayin' She's A Vote Rigger🎶📻🎙

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

-

-

-

KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[girliism]

more rigger art but with a special guest appearance by patrick (thank you to anon who put this in my mind)

letting patrick sit in on some of yours and arts scenes was nothing new. art knew you liked the attention and patrick was his best friend, there’s no one he’d trust more. that’s why when patrick asked if he could do more than just watch art told him yes, after asking you of course.

you were seated on your knees at the foot of the bed with patrick behind you, his hand grabbing your forearms bringing them to your back to rest on top of one another, and he wraps them with the rope. “how does that feel?” art asked while watching patrick finish up tying your chest harness leaving a nice design of knots in the back. “feels good.” you answered, yours eyes following art’s figure as he gets up to walk behind you. the feeling of their presence behind you was making your cunt throb.

“gonna let me play with you tonight?” patrick voices from behind you, kissing behind your ear. you nodded sighing softly, then patrick placed a silk blindfold over your eyes. “sir.” you panicked a little, being bound and blindfolded, having not heard art’s voice in awhile.

“i’m here baby, just relax, you’re ok.” you pursed your lips out silently asking for a kiss, which art gladly gave you. patrick lets his hands glide over your body, brushing against the rope resting above and below your tits, his thumbs ghosting by your nipples. your mouth falls open and you moan into your kiss with art when patrick’s hand reaches down to cup your pussy. “fucking soaked down here.” you couldn’t help but grind against his hand.

patrick tsked moving his hand off you. “art, you have a very eager bunny on your hands, thought she had more home training.” you huffed. you could sometimes forget to ask before taking, you were so eager. “just want you, just wanna play together.” you whined. “but what do we say, hmm.” art rub his hands up and down your thighs, pinching your waist. you sat up a little straighter and licked your lips. “please patrick can you fuck me with your fingers.”

satisfied with the answer he got, patrick pushed you forward so you were face down ass up. patrick smooths his hands over your ass before placing a smack down on it, the force of the slap jolts your body forward and a loud moan. “look at you talking my fingers so well.” patrick coos pumping his fingers in and out of you painfully slow. you were whining, and burying your face in art lap, his steadily growing boner pointing your cheek. “f-faster please faster. sir, make him go faster.” you babbled, and faster patrick went. with no warning patrick fucked his fingers in you. “oh fuck, thank you.” your eyes were rolling to the back of head behind the blindfold as you moaned into art’s lap.

art’s hand that was petting your cheek moves to press his two fingers down on your tongue, forcing your mouth open. the high that was quickly approaching you gets ripped away when art signaled for patrick to stop. “no! why why?” tears flow from your eyes as you try and talk with art’s fingers in your mouth. “patrick is our guest pretty, you can’t cum before our guest.” you couldn’t protest cause patrick rammed his cock into you.

“fuck, tight pussy, so warm.” patrick pulled out only to buck back into you harder beget settling for a rhythm he was happy with. “god art. you always pick up the best girls, with the perfect pussies so needy.” patrick grunted, letting his head fall back, relishing in the feeling of your cunt squeezing him so tight. moan after moan is punch out of you. you’re so lost in the feeling of patrick fucking you, you almost miss the sound of art unbuckling his belt. “come here, baby. come suck sir’s cock.” you couldn’t see and your hands were tied behind your back, so getting art’s sick in your mouth was a task.

the tip of art’s cock finally met with my lips and you immediately sucked it into his mouth. you were a moaning, slobbering messy around art’s cock. you more so just hold him in your mouth than you were sucking him. patrick’s art grab your waist fucking you back onto him. having nothing else to grip onto you dug your nails into your elbows. “fuck.” art had to pull you off his dick, all the moan around you were doing he could feel it and was ready to cum yet. “tell me how good patrick’s fucking you. tell me how much you love letting him use you.

“fucking me so good sir. love the feeling of his fat cock using me - oh fuck sir - like being a slut for patrick.” your words are like honey in patrick’s ears and his bruising grip gets hard. “holy shit art, can i cum in her?” patrick moans. his hip smacking into your ass. “cum in her patrick.” a low moan is heard and warm liquid is spilled inside you. patrick sits for a moment before pulling out. your breath is heavy. “sir?” your pout can be heard in your voice and if you weren’t blindfolded art would bet you’re giving him the most sickening puppy eyes. “please can i cum now?” art thumbs over your cheeks. “come sit on my cock and you can.” patrick has to help you crawl over to art, you lack of vision and use of your hands making it hard.

“oh.” you gasp as your pushed down onto art. your blindfold is pulled off and you have to blink to get your eyes used to the light in the room. “hi.” you say finally getting to seeing art. “hi, you wanna cum huh.” you nodded you head so fast. “ok.” with that art planted his feet on the bed and started fucking up into you. your pussy was slick with your arousal and patrick’s cum. “gonna let me cum in you too? leave you dripping with mine and patrick’s cum pouring out you pussy.” you moaned and whimpered, nodding your head. “yes god yes.” patrick hand slides up your throat and under your jaw, tilting your head back to look at him. “what a little cumslut you are.” patrick said his eyes locking with yours before he smashed your lips together. it was a messy kiss with much tongue. “you can let go whenever bunny.” art whispered kissing your throat. you finally cum when patrick’s fingers come down to rubbing fast against your clit. “fuck.” you body twitches and slumps back into patrick’s chest. the feeling out you squeezing around him had art cumming, his mixing with patrick’s.

both men clean up after you, wiping you down, whispering praises and kisses little bits of your skin.“thank you for being so good for us today.” art says kissing your face. patrick is slow when he unties you. stretching your arms out from being in a bent position all night. you end your night sandwiched between them, your arms wrapped around art burying your face in his chest. patrick’s arms wrapped around your middle his fingers drawing shapes on your stomach.

[sacrificethelamb]

when i saw @kinkyfemqueer do this heart weave i knew i had to create my own version of it <3 <3 <3

[muddyoveralls90]

[nsfw-babyboy]

It's not perfect but I like the way this looks