Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a man self immolated in front of the israeli embassy in washington dc yesterday. not just any man. an active member of the us air force. he live streamed his death, and said that he refused to be complicit in a genocide any longer. he said that compared to what palestinians were facing every day, setting himself alight was nothing.
let me reiterate. an active duty air force member burned himself alive because he was so disgusted by what the us government was openly supporting. he live-streamed his own suicide, so the whole world could bear witness as a man in his military uniform set himself on fire to protest his government’s complicity in the horrors that we have all been forced to watch happen in real time. he became a new horror. footage of the immolation blurs him out the moment the fire catches, but you can hear him. it is over in seconds, really, but you can hear him screaming. he shouts “free palestine” until his body physically cannot make any sounds other than guttural screams of agony. and then he falls silent. a police officer arrives and points a gun at his still burning body, shouting at him to get down on the ground. and it is over.
his name was Aaron Bushnell. he was twenty five years old. and he isn’t here anymore because the political ruling class has decided that genocide is perfectly fine as long as it preserves imperialism. in the coming days, people will try to discredit him. to say that he was mentally unstable. they will try to bury his actions to save face and defend israel’s propaganda. do not let them. aaron knew what he was doing. he knew what he was doing when he put on his military uniform, set up his twitch stream, and made his final walk up to the embassy. he knew what would happen to him when he flicked that lighter. do not let them forget. aaron’s blood is on the hands of the political ruling class.
hoping aaron bushnell's sacrifice won't be swept under the rug by politicians/media and forgotten about in another fucking week as the genocide on palestinians continues
Can we PLEASE not glorify suicide? There are so many ways to protest and help without killing yourself. Aaron Bushnell's actions, while perhaps well-intentioned, were clearly the result of a mental illness. He died horrifically, and paint him as some sort of martyr or hero is honestly disrespectful.
I understand the impulse to say things like this, and to be clear there is a certain amount of journalistic caution that is typically (not always) applied to cases like this- pairing coverage with suicide hotlines and resources, for example. Those standards exist not because being without them would be to glorify suicide, but because media sensationalism can inspire copycats, and because you want people in pain to know they aren't alone.
However, to claim that this was an act fueled by mental illness is not only disrespectful to Aaron Bushnell's memory and his death, it is deeply, deeply ignorant.
Self immolation as the most extreme act of protest has a deeply storied history across the entire globe.
To quote scholar Timothy Dickinson when he spoke about self immolation as protest in 2012: "This isn't insanity. It is a terrible act of reason."
Aaron Bushnell was a deeply anguished young man. That anguish didn't come from an unspecified chemical imbalance that he inherited through the genetic lottery. The anguish came from the fact that he was an enlisted airman serving in the US military while the US government actively funds and sends arms to a country committing genocide. That's not mental illness. It's systemic despair. You can't just leave the military. When you enlist, you sign a contract that you have no way of terminating if the government does shit that you don't like. You're property of the state. He was caged and clawing for a way out.
As an American Jew I already carry the death of every single Palestinian man, woman, and child with me. The guilt is so heavy- I can't imagine what it must have been like for someone like Aaron Bushnell. It must have felt like he fired every shot with his own two hands. This was not mental illness. It was desperation. It's like you're putting pressure on someone else's bullet wound, screaming for paramedics while people walk past you on the street, never looking over. Sometimes you hear passersby wonder out loud, "Why would someone would make all that noise about a paper cut?" You start asking yourself what you have to do to make someone pay attention.
No matter how uncomfortable you are with Aaron Bushnell's suicide, he is a martyr. It is deeply, deeply disrespectful to behave as though Aaron Bushnell was not in complete control of himself and his faculties. It is deeply disrespectful to wave this away as mental illness when that is not the case. I never, ever, ever want anyone to protest in this way. It's so deeply tragic and horrifying, and the suffering compounds for all of those who love you when you go. But that horror doesn't make it not martyrdom. It doesn't make it not a protest. Aaron Bushnell was a very brave, very kind young man. May his memory be a blessing to us all.
buwan’s notes: I’d like to thank @britany1997 for fueling my wild obsession with the lost boys and their hands, and also for agreeing with me that Paul’s the KING of fingering. Thanks. 🤭
episode summary: talking about the lost boys and their sexy hands. yes I’m crazy.
content warnings: hand kinks, some hcs are for fem/masc audiences (will specify so). , spit kink, different other kinks that will take forever to mention, NSFW, me honestly talking about how my favourite necklaces is Dwayne’s hands, yeah..
PAUL
starting off strong with Paul, Brit this one is for you mainly (and me, but I’m on the side).
I think paul has very veiny and bruised hands. I think that the blonde has the type to manage to get bruises or cuts unintentionally and never notice it!
his fingernails aren’t long, and his fingers are somewhat long and he has HUGE palms.
like marko, he has the tendency to chew on his nails, maybe even bite the skin around it.
Paul’s hands is also littered with rings, I can’t begin to explain to you how many rings he has in his own little corner of the cave, even the other guys come to borrow from him time to time!
If I didn’t know any better I would’ve definitely done the “your hands are way bigger than mine 🥺” technique at him, it’s funnier knowing that Paul’s probably the type to fall for it.
Paul also has a tendency to need to grab, he will hold onto anything. His preference is your chest though, he loves how they cup perfectly into his.
he’s very touchy-feely, he doesn’t seem to understand how good it feels to just have you in his hands or arms, whether that’s just you hooking your pinky around his or letting Paul place his hand on your inner thigh, he just loves it.
If I could say anything, I’d say Paul gets off more on touching you rather than you touching him.
maybe even gets higher than he does smoking weed.
He’s like one of those cats who paw at you whenever they’re comfortable. He grabs at thighs, at upper arms, at the tummy. He loves all of you and want all of you to fit in his hands.
Paul’s hands are somewhat rough, I see Paul to be the type to suck at hand care and only really uses hand sanitizer and maybe lotion. (For you know what ;) ).
Brit and I are firm believers that he is the KING of fingering/oral.
Paul thrives, survives on pleasing his mate/partner.
His hands can grip and squeeze and please.
I like to think that Paul loves the way your thighs pool from out his palms, and how it doesn’t fit in both of his hands.
For my feminine readers out there, Paul would love to graze the tips of his fingers on your stretch marks and whisper sweet little dirty nothings into your ears as his free hand just rubs you on your hip dips. :)
Masc readers, never forgetting about y’all, his thick hands definitely wrap perfectly around your cock, and he definitely looks up at you prettily with those baby blues. His painted nails and rings make beautiful accessories for your dick <3.
Paul unintentionally fingers you to the point of overstimulation though, he’s got the attention span of a puppy and will not notice, no matter how many times you cum onto his hands.
his hands look amazing covered in cum and saliva ;)
spit on his hands and tell him to fuck his fist, his only lube being your saliva..
“Paul!” You whined, grabbing at his hands as they gripped firmly at your thighs. His face sported a grin as your squirmed in his hold, a worried look on your face.
It’s been hours since his fingers worked their magic inside of your hole, he worked your walls until they couldn’t anymore and it seemed like Paul would never stop.
A surprised moan left your lips as Paul grazed over a sensitive spot, Paul seemed to feel like the devil in disguise as he no longer grazed your sweet spot, more so, started abusing it.
You couldn’t stop your thighs from shaking and kicking as the overstimulation Paul gave you shook you to your core. You can see the black and white spots appear in your vision as you feel yourself get closer and closer to another high.
It felt like forever before Paul finally plunged his fingers deep into your hole one last time, letting you ride his digits until you came down from his high, twitching from the overstimulation.
After a short while, Paul gently pulled his fingers away, a string of cum connecting his digits to your hole before Paul brought it up to his lips and gently sucked.
His free hand held your hips in place, as you hazily looked up at him with confusion and a red face.
“Has anybody told you how divine you taste, babe?”
(visuals) :
MARKO
Marko’s hands are less veined than the rest of the boys, turning when he was around eighteen had him keep the smooth skin of a baby.
The curly-head’s hands are definitely more daintier than the rest of the boys, most of them have rough maybe thick hands, but Marko’s are thin and has little veins.
Although Marko covers it up with his fingerless gloves, I’d like to think that his hands are very smooth to the touch, his handcare is 10/10.
like Paul, his nails aren’t super long, I’d say he likes to keep them a nice length, but bites them off on the way.
His thumb has a mark where he keeps biting it with his teeth, unlike the other boys who might have bruises or cuts, he has a noticeable bump on his thumb and a small mark on his nail.
type of guy to be short but his hands are still bigger than yours. He always talks about his hands fits yours so well and how he loves seeing the size difference of both your palms together.
type of guy to also tell you that your body fits perfectly into his hands, his hands mold perfectly with your hips and thighs.
most of the time Marko does dirty talk you, but you can never reply back because most of his dirty talk’s in Italian, and you’re busy trying to keep Marko’s wandering hands from going under your shirt and latching onto your chest.
If Paul’s the most touchy with his hands, Marko takes second place with how touchy he is.
Marko has the tendency to play with his hands when anxious or anticipating something. He rubs his hands or massages his palms, looking off to wherever he’s expecting something.
Marko’s fingers don’t stretch you as much as the rest of the boys do, although the boys might be a bit more chunkier, Marko’s hands are small enough that they stretch you out to where it doesn’t hurt.
Marko’s hand game is strong, Paul gets cramps, but Marko doesn’t, I mean, the boy paints, he’s probably got some cool ass tricks in his sleeves to keep him from losing energy during your bedroom deeds.
Marko likes to listen to your sounds and your body, whenever he’s fingering you, he doesn’t mind the squealing or the squelching, he knows he’s the one who made you sound like that, and if anything, he’s more proud of it.
if I were to rate his fingering skills? 7/10. He’s got some learning to do but most of the time he’ll probably have you screaming his name from his fingers.
Fem!readers, this man eats pussy like he’s starved! Not the point though, because his hands are where it’s at, he knows how to work you up, and loves to tease, the tips of his fingers padded perfectly on top of your clit and he loves to go fast. No mercy. So while he’s enjoying a nice meal, you’re enjoying yourself.
Masc!readers, exactly the same!! This guy sucks cock like an animal and honestly it would take everything to get this guy off your dick. Since Marko’s hands are daintier, his hands definitely look amazing wrapped around you.
Marko would never admit it but, he loves when you stain his fingerless gloves with your cum <3, he’s the real artsy type.
He probably fingers you in public as well, no care in the world.
his favourite past time is watching your hands wrap around his cock, while his hands are bound together to keep him from being impatient <3
tie his pretty hands up and gag him, he likes the challenge!
Marko held you by the hands, his palms pressing them firmly to your back, your stomach to the bed and your back facing him. the curly-headed boy had you pinned to your nest in the cave.
Marko’s growls sounded in your ear as you felt your stomach flutter at his sounds. You could see him from your peripheral vision, his curls falling in front of his eyes as he pinned you.
You could feel the pads of his fingers gently running across the small of your back, almost..appreciating it in a sense, his hands felt soft, yet firm.
Finally, his hands slipped down to your ass, squeezing it in his palms as you squirmed from his firm grip. A small mantra of Marko’s name left your lips, unable to look back to see your boyfriend’s face.
You could feel from the air that he was enjoying this, enjoying you.
Marko, with the strength, turned you around, you laid on your back, bare for his hands to just wander.
His hands travelled from your ass back to your hips, up your stomach, and ended right on your chest. If it wasn’t so lewd, you would’ve thought Marko was giving you a massage.
Marko’s touch teased you relentlessly, you just wanted to yell out for him to touch you, use you. You wanted it so desperately, and Marko knew.
He grinned at your display of biting your lips and the small twitches his touch gave you.
“See, baby? You fit perfectly in the palms of my hands.”
(visuals) :
DAVID
David’s hands are very thick, probably the most thickest out of the boys.
His hands are the best for holding, gripping.
David’s hands could probably cover your whole ass if I know anything.
David’s very careful about his handcare. I think that David has the softest hands out of the boys, he takes good care of them, especially if he wears gloves to cover them.
Though I also think he’s got some blisters, years of driving motorcycles do that to you.
He’s got pretty long fingernails, they’re long enough to have the annoyance of cleaning them every time something gets under his nails.
He brings a cuticle around, I just can’t lie. I think that he’s the type of guy to be like those girls who’s always filing their nails.
probably pinches the hardest as well, he likes to do it when you’re not paying attention and actually causes bruises 😭.
watching him work without his gloves is so attractive, his hands moving as he writes in a notebook or diary, or when he’s playing with a cigar, it’s very, very, attractive.
The pads of his fingers is very soft, not tough like Dwayne’s and Paul’s.
Barely any rings litters his hands and the ones he has are very basic, no intricate designs, most of his complicated rings actually tore through a set of his gloves and he never worn flashy rings ever since.
Leather is his best friend, whether that’d be gloves or the handles of his motorcycle, or in this case, a leash to your collar.
He’s very into oral fixation, he loves shoving his fingers down your throat, likes the ability of being able to choke you out without pulling out his cock to do so.
He’ll also make you suck his digits clean after a long night of teasingly fingering you.
He loves seeing his hands around your throat too, he’s a sadistic little shit, if he doesn’t get off, you don’t either.
I think he’s got the thickest fingers out of the boys, he’s the one who stretches you out the most and sometimes it feels good, but it’s when he teased, that’s when you don’t like it.
Fingering skills are, annoyingly, at a 9/10. It would’ve been a ten if he didn’t tease.
Would NEVER ever paint his nails, like the boys always seem to have black nail polish and Marko’s and Paul’s are always chipped, but David’s is clean, polished, in good health.
His hands wrapped around your waist and dipping into your waistband, the tips of his fingers on the hand of your underwear.
Pulls you to him by hooking his pointer finger into your belt loops and into his chest.
Let him choke you out!!! He’ll be gentle!! Only because you’re human though.
Thumb on your lips always!! His thumbs make good work of finishing you!!!
A small shush left the platinum blonde as you tried to stop your whines, you moved uncomfortably on his motorbike’s seat, the leather being soaked in your wetness.
“careful, dear, you’re making a mess.” David mused, his lips shaped in a taunting smirk as his hands dipped deeper into your core.
You bit your lip to hold in your squeals, teased and tired. David could watch your expressions for the rest of his life.
he’ll never get tired of the way you cling onto his coat, your fingernails digging into its seams, as if any longer you’d have ripped his coat apart from the overwhelming feeling of his fingers pleasing you.
You tried to stay silent, feeling people’s gazes on you as you sat uncomfortable on David’s lap, his coat covered the indecent display of his digits inches deep inside you.
You were desperate for release, searching for your other three boyfriend to earn some mercy from David.
Your eyes looked around the boardwalk, eyes flicking from every similar person who looked similar to your boys.
Suddenly a chuckle and loud voices were heard, you saw your boys from afar. Hopeful, you decided to move off of David’s fingers when his free hand reached up to stop you by the throat.
A light squeeze to your throat, making you gulp and your core pulse with need.
“Eyes on me, dear. Don’t look at anybody else, especially when I’m this deep inside of you.”
(visuals) :
DWAYNE
THE BIGGEST OF THE BOYS!
DEFINITELY has the most veins out of the boys.
Can’t lie, Brit has listened to me want to lick his veins.
He’s got the lengthiest fingers out of them too. He’s the best when it comes to fingering.
His fingernails are nicely trimmed, it’s also littered with rings, his left hand is always bare though since he uses that hand primarily to hold laddie’s and he’s scared that Laddie might get cut from his rings.
Dwayne somewhat cares about his hands, he uses David’s shit though, lotion, Vaseline, serum, cream.
David doesn’t know how he runs out of hand cream so fast too.
Dwayne does carry his own hand sanitizer, but most of it goes to laddie and Paul.
Dwayne doesn’t have really flashy rings either, he doesn’t like the way it clicks together and it puts him in a very uncomfortable situation because he likes to massage his hands when awkward.
He’s big everywhere, his height, his heart, his cock, his hands. It’s crazy.
Prob can carry you in one hand, one arm under your ass and your arms around his neck.
Although he likes fingering, he prefers playing with your clit/cock even more, he’s surprisingly has the best stamina over all the guys but he likes to keep it secret.
A good surprise, I’d say.
I see him as the type to be more sensual than sexual. His hands are best at love-making than rough fucking.
besides Marko, he’s one of the best massuage therapists out there.
His hands somehow find every tense crack in your bones and somehow is able to perform chiropractic procedures like aligning your neck properly or fixing a locked jaw.
He owns a ton of essential oils, his hands always seem to smell of lavender or peppermint, and sometimes he does use it on you.
The boys have learnt that if you both smell like the same thing then you both most likely fucked teehee.
Dwayne’s hands are best for pulling hair!!!
Watch him tangle his digits into your hair and pull gently, maybe whenever you’re sucking him off, or when he needs a little handlebar during sex.
he likes to cover your mouth with his huge hands whenever you’re having a quickie in public, he loves the idea of keeping you quiet with just his hands over your mouth as he dicks you down in a shady alleyway.
He also looks amazing covering his lips with his hands, his veins are more prominent and they run down all the way to his upper arm.
I wouldn’t blame you if you told me you wanted to follow that long vein to the end ;)
his hands definitely flex and his veins show while he grips your headboard to death.
Dwayne’s actor, Billy rips panties with one hand, it’s no surprise Dwayne wouldn’t either.
And god he looks amazing doing so..
Hold his hands while you ride him, he wants to see you be so dependent on him and his hands, he’ll make you feel good, don’t worry! Just relax and let him do the work.
Leaves hand prints all over your body from how strong he grips!
In the end, let Dwayne wash your hair for you! He gives a good massage and he’ll leave you feeling relaxed then ever.
“Yeah…there..” you sighed in content, your stomach to your bed as a deep rumble of a chuckle was heard. “Feel good, sweetheart?” You nodded hazily, your hands gripping onto the sheets with pleasure.
“God Dwayne..when were you going to tell me you were this good?..” you groaned, feeling his huge hands run themselves down your back almost passionately. You could feel his fingers gently scan your back for any tense spots to fix.
A hearty chuckle was only heard from your boyfriend as he gently pushed his thumb into a tense spot in your back, a small crack leaving it as you let out a surprise yelp, before relaxing once again.
“Fuck..” you cursed out, feeling Dwayne’s hands reach up onto your shoulder and dig themselves into your shoulder blade. A whine left your lips as another pop was heard from your body.
You’ve never been so relaxed and turned on at this point, Dwayne feels amused by your reactions, sighing and whining in content and relaxation. He lives for the pleasure he gives you.
His hands massaged one of his favourite scented oils into your skin, hydrating it, and making you smell absolutely delicious to him, he couldn’t help but place a few kisses at the back of your neck as you felt like falling asleep under Dwayne’s touch.
After a while of a slow, long, amazing massage from Dwayne, the dark-haired man deemed you relaxed enough before he gently pulled you by the thighs, resting in between them as you yelped in surprise.
“Think you’re finished? Daddy needs his release too.”
Brahms Heelshire ramble because I am incapable of writing properly. This has been sitting in my drafts for at least 7 months. I hate everything I write, goodbye.
Brahms doesn‘t simply walk, he stalks. Every step he takes seems to be carefully measured and with intent. He takes his time thinking over all of his actions, often standing awkwardly between steps to make sure he's sure which step to take next. He takes his time to mull things over, whether it‘s which room he‘ll go into next, how to step from side to side as you two sway to the music, or how he'll creep into your bed at night. It‘s become an unbreakable habit of his, he has to intentionally walk hard and heavy so as to not startle you.
He tends to randomly appear behind you during the day. You‘re doing the laundry? He‘s somehow right behind you, grabbing into your waist as if his life depended on it. Washing the dishes in a painfully vacant household? Yeah, he‘s actually breathing down your neck halfway through the dirty dishes. It‘s uncomfortable how he seems to magically appear out of thin air sometimes.
Everything he does is thought over twice, maybe even thrice. The only times he lives in the moment is when you're right next to him. The tension in the air when you lock eyes with him is enough to make his skin grow hot, and his lungs squeeze around every breath he takes.
He fumbles with his hands awkwardly when he notices you staring, his own gaze resting awkwardly on your face. Brahms doesn’t know what to do with his body when you gaze at him lovingly. Every limb is too heavy, and hair sticking out from under his mask in a manner that makes him want to rip every strand of hair out. Your undivided attention drives him crazy. He‘s used to being ignored - a mere afterthought in other people’s lives. But somehow that‘s not how it is with you.
Your smile makes his knees grow weak, every glance you make his way makes it heavier for him to breathe. It‘s easy to forget just how scary Brahms can be when he‘s often nervous around you. His chest rises rapidly and lets out strangled breaths as he tries to focus on anything but the way you‘re looking at him. Holding his hand will both calm him down, and make him lose his balance.
Any form of physical contact with Brahms is bad for his anxiety. He relishes every touch you grace him with, but his heart rate picks up dangerously when you hold his hand.
With or without his mask on it‘s easily noticeable how flustered he becomes with the tiniest bit of attention. Although it’s exclusive to you, and you only. Brahms only wants to keep you near him, he can barely stand having Malcolm around on a good day, so imagine what a complete stranger would do to him. You‘re his only person of interest, his one and only obsession.
He often fantasises about getting closer to you. He imagines how you‘d lean into him during a hug, or how your eyes focus on his as he leans in to kiss you. Millions of scenarios run through his head as he lays in bed at night. Many of them include him being your saviour in some way. Saving you from an assailant would mean you "owe" him for saving your life. He'd be your knight in ripped clothes!
Brahms Heelshire is known as an urban legend in his scenic town, but to you, he seems to be everything but threatening. Loving, nervous, quick to cry, and so incredibly touch-starved. He crumbles at any hint of affection, finding it exceptionally hard to see himself as someone worthy of love. He's been raised pampered; he expects people to bend over backwards for him. That doesn't mean he actually believes that you actually like him for the person he is. He finds himself growing irrationally worried that someday you might realise that he actually is a monster, and a freak. He tends to take your affection for granted in his moments of need, but at night he remembers that you could leave him while he's not watching over you.
Naturally, he hates it when you leave the house. Fear and panic meet deep within his chest when you open a window to let in some fresh air, but his heart practically stops beating while you're outside tending to the garden. It's still part of the house, and he goes out every so often, but he can't trust you fully when you're outside. You could just run off the property, to never be seen again. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if you left. You're only allowed outside of the house while he's glued to your side. He won't risk being even an inch apart from you, not even if you beg him to give you some space.
This does slightly get better as you get to know each other properly, but the air of uneasiness never truly leaves him. You could grow old together and he'd still fear that you'd leave him someday. It's kind of silly, but he can't help himself.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The slashers with a scantily clad s/o? Not to provoke, he's just hot and that's why he's shirtless (or pants) and with short pants (or short shirt) and he goes out like that without caring much since they're only with them ( I prefer Jason and Billy Lenz but he puts Whoever you want)
Gracias y que la pases bonito 😊
a/n: this sounded so cute to me. half of these are a little sexy tho, because. i mean billy’s here, you know how it goes
Slashers with a scantily clad masc!s/o during summer! [softcore!nsfw]
featured slashers: billy lenz, jason vorhees, thomas hewitt, & brahms heelshire
billy lenz :
you were playing a dangerous game. billy was a repressed, easily aroused, constantly horny rat, and here you were, walking around like a slutty piece of cheese.
you didn’t do it on purpose, though. you had never been with someone so easily riled up. plus, it was so fucking hot. of course you’re gonna be wearing nothing but some tight boyshorts. you were sweating like a piggy, splaying yourself out on any cool surface you could find, dying of heat. you didn’t have time to think about how delectable you looked to your boyfriend.
billy would wear his sweater and jeans in the middle of a desert. he didn’t care about heat at all. so in comparison to him, you were naked. and he liked it. he liked that he had a free pass to stare at your body all the time. your chest, your tummy, your thighs, your cute butt, your bulge… it made his mouth water. every time you walked by him, complaining about the heat, he wanted to jump your bones.
he did. frequently. during summer, at least three times a day he was on top of you, lusting over every part of your body. his favourite was when you were laying in front of the fan, and he was rutting against your thigh like a bitch in heat. you were so warm you didn’t even pay attention to him. it stung in an arousing way.
you also always heard his cat calling. from the second you’d step out of a cold shower and start going about your day in your shorts and nothing else, you’d hear him. “slutty piggy. trying to tease, billy, trying to make him act up… such a handsome piggy, so handsome, wanna fuck him… wanna fuck him into the floor… i’ll cool you off - cool you off with my cum! cum all over your face.”
needless to say, he enjoyed summertime more with you around.
jason vorhees :
YOU’RE EMBARRASSING THE BOY
to be fair, jason was the same way during summer. usually he was just wearing some baggy shorts and nothing else. it was too hot even for him. but for some reason, it was different when you did it.
when you walked out of the house and into the sun, going to go check on him in the garden, and he saw your glistening body wearing one of his t-shirts and seemingly nothing else - oh, he couldn’t even look at you.
it confused you at first. he was dramatic with the way he’d avoid eye contact. you’d be talking to him, asking about the flowers he had been planting, and he’d be looking everywhere but at you. you’d get closer, pressing your frame up against his large body, and he’d be practically trembling. he couldn’t help it. he was a sheltered guy, you were his first boyfriend, and you were so perfect.
that being said, as much as he was embarrassed, he was also concerned. it was so hot. he’d fill up a kiddy pool outside with cold water and make you sit in it, despite it making his heart beat ten times too fast. when you laid back in the pool, in just some loose swim trunks, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. it was so hard to pull them off of you.
he liked those days most. the way the water shone off of your body, and the way you relaxed into the coolness of it, it made him happy and a little horny. happy to be able to help you find some relief in this overbearing heat, horny because he wanted to remove that last bit of clothing you wore and go to town on you. sometimes he’d come find you, and press his face into your wet chest, and use it to cool off before getting back to work. it was the only affection he could handle while you were looking so sweet.
thomas hewitt :
he honestly didn’t think much of it. shit was hot as all sin. he got down and naked with you, are you kidding? texas was hell during the summer, and he wasn’t about to suffer just because he felt nervous being around you while half-naked.
you were much newer to all this heat, though. often times you couldn’t stand to be in anything but some tight shorts. you’d be sweating and complaining, cursing at the sun gods. he’d be wearing some loose sweats and a tight tank top, that was practically drenched in sweat from him doing all the house chores for the family.
it was you who was embarrassed. the way his muscles sheened with sweat, the way his hair matted to his forehead, the way he panted hot under the mask, the way he looked at you whenever he had a chance to - it made you so flustered.
he’d come and find you on breaks. he’d check in on you, feeling up your forehead and making you chug as much water as he could. you’d do the same, but he already knew all the tricks to keep cool. you didn’t. he’d hug his body close to yours, almost like he was trying to use his large frame to give you shade. it was so sweet.
at the end of the day, when the cold of the desert began to set in, he’d make you sit with him out on the porch. he’d have you right on his lap, his head resting on the top of yours, and he’d be stroking over your bare arms and thighs. he was like a big teddy bear when he wanted to be. you guys would share an ice tea out there, and you’d tell him about all the bugs you saw that day. he’d just listen and revel in the cool night air, and how good you felt against him.
if it was any other day, he’d be red in the face and barely able to contain himself, but it was too hot to over-sexualize you. he was just happy you weren’t dying of heat stroke.
brahms heelshire :
hands everywhere. he is a grabby bitch. he has not seen a body, especially a man’s body, in a very long time. most of the nanny’s he got were women, and then you were there, with your masculine frame and your nice chest and your cute smile and…
he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. this is a man that will wear his sweater until the day he dies, he refuses to take the mask off, and he just hasn’t had a lot of experience with the naked body. so, you strolling through the house in nothing but your underwear - it made him very excited.
he’d find you wherever you were, and watch you for a bit. you’d see him out of the corner of your eye while you made lemonade, or you’d notice his figure in a window while you sat outside watering the plants. for a long time, all he’d do is stare, and take in every curve and detail.
that wasn’t enough, though. at some point, observing from a distance became a more physical study.
you often found yourself in the living room, as it was one of the colder rooms of the house. while you laid across the couch, listening to a random record, he’d be right there, laying on top of you. usually, he’d have his head down against your chest, listening to your heart beat. it was different when the clothes weren’t there, he could really feel your skin bobbing up and down. along with that, his fingers would be trailing over any inch of skin he could get. he was memorizing it all.
if his mask was off, you could see how focused he was. he needed to be. he needed to gather all this information for later, when he laid in bed and fantasized about that bare body against his in other ways. he was too embarrassed to think of those things while you were present. but the second you were gone… he was day dreaming about all the ways he could feel your skin on his, and what it would taste like if he ran his tongue over it. he couldn’t help it.
The constant thrumming of the ship bothered you. No one else seemed to notice. But it was driving you crazy. Anxious, you fiddled with your jacket zipper.
“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Someone asked.
Chatter initiated. Overwhelmed by it, you sat back and fiddled some more. But you thought about the question. Your group had been overtaken by a strange alien race while exploring a new planet. Half the crew had been lost by the time another alien species showed up, ship crashing through the clouds in the sky.
The other scientists continued to argue. You thought about your meeting with the second type of alien. Cornered by a xenomorph, you had flattened yourself against a wall and waited for death. It had approached slowly, calmly, as if relishing the kill. You focused on the drool coming out of its two mouths.
Suddenly a spear had gone through its elongated head. It had screamed, acidic blood spurting at you. A large, strong hand had pulled you backwards to safety. The thing staggered and fell. Was it dead? You stared at it, waiting for it to move. Horror slowly dawned on you as you considered the fact that the awful creature, which had killed half your crew, had just been killed easily by something else. What terrible beast was this?
You turned slowly around, focusing on your fingertips and counting up and down from 10. You had to look upward to see its face. It was… inhuman. But the eyes seemed familiar. It blinked at you. You blinked back. It broke the tension by speaking in a nearly human voice. Scratchy and raw sounding, it didn’t frighten you.
“Come… with me. To your friends.” It turned and took off without another word or action. Confused, you followed along. If nothing else, you appeared to be safe with it.
“What do you think?” The question broke into your thoughts.
“Huh?” You had stopped paying attention to your shipmates.
“What do you think is going to happen to us? Maybe they’ll eat us.”
You snorted at the comment. After interacting with it, you didn’t think it was interested in making you a meal.
“Why would they bother to talk to us if they wanted to eat us?” You asked, still zipping your zipper up and down your jacket.
“What, one of them talked to you?” Incredulous comments burst forth, overwhelming you again. Their voices turned into one buzzing noise in your ears. Just as your anxiety was about to boil over, the door opened. Your rescuer came in. You felt happy to see it. Looking directly at you, it motioned for you to come.
“Don’t go with it - We can fight it!”
You jumped up and followed it out the door before they could yell anymore. You entered a long corridor, illuminated with red lighting. It walked briskly. It turned its head slightly to speak to you as you trotted along beside it. “Your friends are very afraid. You can explain to them that we mean them no harm. Your kind are not an honorable kv’var.”
Confused, you followed along silently. It continued, “Where do you come from? I think… you call it Earth?”
You nodded. It went on, “Why so far from home?”
You didn’t know how to respond. An alien was asking you why you left the rock you were born on to go to another one. Honestly, in this moment, you had no idea. You said so. It grunted. You weren’t sure if it was annoyed or amused or…?
“This way,” it lead you down a slightly more narrow corridor. Stopping in front of a doorway, it motioned you inside. You stopped short upon entering. Human objects were scattered about the small room. Some looked very old. Others looked quite new.
“This is all my ooman stuff. I thought you would like to see it.” Was it boasting? You were unsure. You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact, so you just nodded as you looked around the room. Many things confronted you. It was so much you nearly got dizzy. But then you focused in on something. As an archeologist, you recognized something you had studied heavily. Canopic jars. A full set, looking brand new! You raced to it. Reverently, you kneeled to get a better look. Without touching, you noted the cartouche. You knew this Pharaoh. You grinned. What a find.
“Do you like them? Your people used to put your guts into jars. Weird, but they look nice.”
You laughed happily. You continued to study them. Time stretched as you carefully examined each and every detail, all the hieroglyphs you could see. You realized slowly that the alien was sitting next to you patiently. You turned your head slowly.
“You really like them.” It seemed… amused? You weren’t sure. It leaned towards you slowly, as if to not frighten you. It smelled liked herbs and… strangeness. It picked up one of the jars. “This is my favorite.”
You immediately set off explaining which organ and why went into it. Then you went on to explain the life of the person who owned the jars. It nodded, listening intently. Finally it asked, “So now I know the name of my Pharaoh. My name is Hult’ah. And your name is..?”
You found it difficult to talk about yourself. After a strained moment, you squeaked out your name.
It considered. “I like it,” it finally said. It scooted closer. The scent got stronger. Normally this would bother you, but you didn’t mind this smell. It seemed… comforting.
“We take you home in a few of your earth months. We are very far away right now, as you know.”
You shrugged. You were more interested in exploring more of this room. It seemed to sense this, “What else do you want look at? I have more things from Kmt.”
Impressed, you asked to see more. The next several hours passed by in academic bliss. Finally you realized you were hungry.
It grumbled in a way you didn’t understand. “We have some food that is… probably palatable to oomans. Come.”
You followed along, passing by several other of its kind. You kept your gaze down, intimidated. Finally it turned into a larger room. There was some seating and something that looked a bit like the kitchenette in your Earth apartment. It opened a drawer and pulled out something that could be thought of as fruit, appearance-wise anyway.
You took it. You looked up at your friend. It clicked softly, eyes gentle. You felt oddly okay. Taking a bite, you tasted the tart juiciness of it. You mumbled. It was good.
Hult’ah clicked again before saying, “Let’s sit.” You sat in a chair, eating. It sat next to you, rather than across the table. Must be cultural, you thought.
When you had finished your snack, you turned to Hult’ah, “Now what?”
“Well, you want to go to your friends?”
You frowned, “Not exactly. I’m sure they’re fine.”
Hult’ah clicked again. “Well, we can just talk?”
“About what?” You panicked at the social requirements.
It shrugged, “You could tell me more about Kmt.” You immediately went off on a long story about the history of everything you were really interested in. Hult’ah leaned forward.
Finally you were tired. Hult’ah took you to a small room. It had a cozy looking bed and some other ooman-ish items. “You can stay here to sleep. But tomorrow you really need to tell the other oomans it’s okay.” You agreed sleepily. Hult’ah left you sleep.
***
The weeks had passed more quickly than you wanted. You stood next to Hult’ah as the Yaujta ship entered Earth’s atmosphere. You had learned much about the Yaujta, and befriended many of them. It was strange to feel so at home among another species.
Hult’ah clicked, “Well, soon we will be on your ground.” You nodded. Then you started to cry. Hult’ah turned to you. “You are… happy to return?”
“No,” you blurted out.
“… you have… things on Earth you will miss?”
You thought about your snake plant for a second. “No,” you finally said, feeling sad and angry you had to leave. Hult’ah was… very special to you. The other oomans crowded to the exit as the ship landed, rumbling and finally becoming still. They chattered excitedly. Although they no longer feared their alien hosts, they were ecstatic to return home, to the things they had left. But you were leaving the thing that was important to you. You took one step. Then another. Focusing on moving your feet, you made it to the exit. Your ooman companions called to you to hurry. The Yaujta could not stay long without risking detection.
You froze. This was it. Your stomach felt heavy.
A strong hand landed on your shoulder. “You can go, but you don’t have to.” Hult’ah’s voice was very quiet.
You spun around and leapt into Hult’ah’s powerful arms. “Let’s go.”
Hult’ah held you with one arm while comming the pilot, “We’re ready. Oomans are clear of the ship…. Well, the ones that are leaving, anyway.”
You wrapped both arms around Hult’ah until it became too much. Then the two of you walked through the ship to the Ooman Room. You wanted to continue cataloging it, and Hult’ah was an excellent assistant. You thought about Hult’ah and your heart was full.
This is mainly fluff, I tried to make it seem a bit dreamy, but no clue if that comes across. I already forgot what I wrote, so proceed with caution.
Once Brahms starts being able to have some quality alone time to take care of himself, he starts to become more mischievous. He tends to walk around with fewer clothes, ask you for dumb things as if you knew this house better than him, and act all whiny.
He comes out of the bathroom in disarray. He had promised you that he'll have showered before dinner is ready. He seems to be enjoying taking time to take care of his body. You've seen him basically dissecting his own image in the mirror, black pupils digging into his own reflection tearing himself into tiny atoms. He usually recedes back into things he can trust, and find comfort in, and that usually entails you playing with him for hours on end. Some of his favourite games are, hide and seek, monopoly, and the antique version of risk that's hidden away in one of the elegant vitrines scattered around the house. He usually starts off by making up silly bets that he always wins, because he's a sore loser.
Today he looks, extra elegant as if one of the many statues of apollo had regained a breath of life to come sit before you. By the aggressive flush on his cheeks, you can tell he had basically boiled himself alive, and just left himself to soak in it. He didn't have his mask on which made it easier for you to stare into his eyes, deep, and twinkling with mirth. You knew something was up but feigned ignorance as you continued to stir the tea you had prepared for him. You both sat on the floor on a big and soft blanket surrounded by pillows. He had set up the risk gameboard as you were gone preparing some tea for you both. He's been really focused on his strategies lately, making sure to win in the cruellest and heartwrenching ways humanly possible.
You could see by the clear and pale skin of his jaw that he had shaved today. He looked good, rudely so. He was pretty enough to make someone sick with envy. Whether that someone is you, or not depends on whether you're willing to stir up trouble with Brahms. His eyes would certainly dig into every fibre of your being if you told him just how envious you were of his beauty, maybe his ears would even turn bright red. He'd act as if you were lying to him, but he'd keep his bitter words to himself. He knew talking down on himself wasn't the smartest idea when he put in so much effort to look extra alluring for you. He knew you knew that he had something up his sleeve, but both of you pretended to be absentmindedly busy with whatever you were holding in your hands. There was hardly any tension in the air, just the anticipation of how hard Brahms would throw a curveball at you when you let your guard down.
Looking up from your tea, you can see how his eyes crinkle slightly as he focuses his gaze on what he has scribbled down into his notebook. Either he's steaming up the nastiest plot ever, or he was going to make you choke on your tea by asking the most outlandish question known to mankind. It takes him a minute to notice your gaze, but when he looks up he can't hide the laughter in his eyes. He looks giddy, as he stands up to show you what he was writing.
A whole page of the notebook he was currently filling up, was filled with paragraphs upon paragraphs of literature. Most of them seemed to be poems from his favourite novels, snippets of philosophical explanations of the human mind, and random gibberish. You could only tell any of these apart at first glance because he would talk about his books for hours on end if he got into the right mindset, and you always listen to him when he does. Brahms' hand is outstretched as if he was offering you the notebook. Your hand tentatively meets his on the spine of the notebook, grasping at the smooth leather of the skilful binding of the pages. He loosens his grip, and rests the notebook in the palm of your hand, pages open for the world to see.
With a single glance, you peer up at him, as he stands in front of you. His expression tells you that he's waiting for you to read it properly, to take in what he had spent so much time on. The pads of your fingers lift the pages at the corners, to slowly flip back into the sketchbook. He hasn't spoken a lot today, so you're unsure whether he was trying to only show you this one page, or the previous one as well. His posture doesn't change in the least as you turn the page full, smoothing it back down to where the last of his notes reside.
The pages are littered with big words that make you sift through your knowledge of the English vocabulary, sketches of your face, and lots of beautiful penmanship. His handwriting is beautiful, elegance radiates from every loop the pen forms, in every dot, and every stroke. Your fingers follow the flow of the letters, eyes focusing on every word. It's beautiful yet confusing, what exactly was he trying to convey? Obviously a lot of affection, and love, but why did he spend so much time making this present for you. The stubborn, and childish Brahms you first met wouldn't have been able to do this.
He's watching you as you take in everything on the pages of his notebook, you can feel his gaze on your face. You meet his eyes, and thank him slowly. He tilts his head in thought, eyes brightening up significantly. He's sharing your happiness, you can see it in the red flush on his ears and shoulders. The sigh of relief that left his lithe stature didn't evade your gaze. He must've been worried about what you'd say. He doesn't usually give you many gifts, so of course he wouldn't know how you'd react. It's sweet of him to worry about what you think of his display of affection, and you know he'd enjoy it if you thanked him a bit more, and praised him for his progress in self-development.
If there is one thing Brahms wants to be, it is worthy. Worthy of your attention, worthy of the endless opportunities you provide him with, worthy of this new life he got to start, away from his past. He has a future ahead of himself, and he couldn't thank you enough for showing him what it meant to be human again, he had almost forgotten.
Some similarities between Brahms, and Beetlejuice.
Basically just a ramble, on why I think they're both unable to live on their own, and be sustainable.
Mention of childhood abuse/neglect for both these boys, who would've thunk. This may genuinely be upsetting for some, but it's angst with comfort? I like men that are insecure, and depend on me.
As a general introduction I'd like to say, I think of them both as deeply scarred, and traumatised individuals. This most likely isn't surprising, since you're also most likely part of the Slasher community, but I usually try to portray them in not only a positive light. They're both touch-starved, and in need of reintegration into society. They have many needs that they need to have met, some obvious some not. I'll just be rambling here. Brahms' point of view will be answered first, and then Beetlejuice's.
They both dislike the feeling of hand cream on their palms. It's a sensory issue for both, but for completely different reasons.
Brahms wouldn't like the feeling of it because he has dry hands, bruised and weathered with use, and he hates how long it takes to seep into his skin. He hates the tacky feeling of it on his palms, so he always wipes them on his pants. His mother used to have one of those super thick, and "moisturising" hand creams, that work as good at keeping moisture in your body as vaseline. On the downside, it felt like vaseline on his palms. He never enjoyed the feeling, but he did enjoy being pampered, and taken care of. He doesn't like the feeling of hand cream as much now, and can't even stand the mere thought of it being on his hands. Who would've guessed, being locked inside the walls of your house, basically spending all of your adolescence and your adulthood in isolation, would fuck up your mental health. Plus, he remembers that his mother never even truly liked him, he was more of an accessory to her. The thought of it makes him fidget nervously, stress isn't good for the baby.
Beetlejuice on the other hand, is just plain filthy. He also loves getting attention, but he can't keep his hands still. Will always, somehow, get dirt, hair, fuzz, etc. on his hands. He probably makes it his goal to fuck up any kind of moisture that tries to enter his body. It's annoying, but you can't really blame him for being unable to keep still. He's always doing something while relaxing, playing with his hands, ripping holes in his pants, playing in his own mouth and smashing his fingernails against his teeth (he likes the sound of it), or just having both his hands in his hair. On a good day, he just cracks his knuckles, and smushes his hands against his thighs, but on not-so-good days, he'll pull on his hair absentmindedly, or even scratch his cheek open while nervously trying to calm the itch on his cheeks. Holding his hands usually helps a lot, but holding him in a full-body headlock also works. He likes listening to your heartbeat, and it'll distract him enough to snooze a little.
Bad Hygiene. They're both physically capable of cleaning, and tending to themselves, but they outright refuse because why not make you do it for them?
Brahms is, well, Brahms. What do you expect of him? The job description should've made it clear that you'll be taking care of another human full-time. Sure, it never mentioned you'd be taking care of a grown-ass man, but shit happens. You need to shower, and bathe (with) him, or all hell will break loose. If you expect Brahms to be forgiving when it comes to his schedule, you're dead fucking wrong. He won't forgive you, actually, he might as well also rip the sofa apart in deviancy. He's angry, and oh boy, you're going to have to give him space or he might take out the anger on you. Needless to say, he enjoys it when you make sure to lather up his whole body with soap, especially if you're going to spend extra time on his messy curls. He doesn't care whether you have a 15-step skincare routine made for him, or you just shove him into a warm bath with some bath bombs. As long as you spend a handful of hours dedicating your every waking moment to him, he'll be pleased. Will ask you to join him in the bath, and will pout when you reject. Don't let him manipulate you. He may be crying, but only in sound. Not a single tear has been shed.
And then there's good ol' Beetlejuice. Let's be honest, he doesn't really give a shit about personal hygiene. He's lived long enough that he just gave up on even maintaining the little semblance of hygiene he used to have. Doesn't care, scratches his ass every time you ask him to shower, and fucks off in a cloud of smoke. On the other hand, if you mention you might join him, and really turn on your charm he will momentarily forget that he is real, and stare at you wide-eyed as you lead him to the bathroom. He Short-circuits, and starts spasming, while simultaneously trying to stay calm (he fails miserably every time). Even a goddamn giggle from you would be enough for him to get your name tattooed on his chest encircled by the gaudiest heart ever. The embodiment of heart-eyes, and he'll forget to ask you when you'll be joining him in the bath, because he can't believe you are actually shampooing his hair! Your hands do sure work wonders on his skin, but I recommend putting on a double layer of glove protection for the first time, who knows you might catch some long-extinct brain amoeba. Will whine later on about not being able to see you strip, but a smack on the head will make him shut up. He obviously has a bad relationship with self-care because not even his own mother gave a shit about him. I'd like to believe that in whichever way demons start to exist, he used to borrow his mother's soap to scrub himself clean while she was at work, or asleep. She would've probably withheld food (do demons need to eat?) as punishment for waking her up. Not quite certain of the lore behind Beetlejuice universe demons, but you get what I mean. Wrap him up in a big towel to dry him off, find a massive sweater for him to be swallowed by, and he'll doze off on the couch next to you. He deserves better smh.
Inability to initiate healthy intimacy, and or, communicate their feelings. This one's obvious, right? Both of them are as emotionally mature as a grape, so the road ahead is fucking bumpy.
Brahms was, as mentioned before, locked in the walls of his house. One silly little murder, and he gets treated like a war criminal? Geneva convention who. This guy doesn't know how to articulate his emotions without manipulating the shit out of you. He's soooo pitiful, come on why aren't you bending your spine in all the wrong ways just because he's upset? Like come on, give a guy a break! He swore he'd try to work on himself when you two started officially... courting each other. He may not have said it out loud, but he knew he'd end up scaring you off like the other nannies, if he didn't get his act together. Obviously, it doesn't go all too good in the beginning. He believes he'll be able to just do it all of a sudden, and that he's in intune with his needs. Spoiler, he's not. He doesn't even know how to talk to you without making himself seem extra pitiful, and non-threatening. You don't mind obviously - the pathetic guy act, not borderline verbal abuse - and it might've taken some time for you to catch onto how he slightly flinches when his words come out harsher than intended, or how his fingers dig into his sides when he screams at you. His grief is awkward, and lopsided, but he genuinely feels bad. Maybe not out of selfless reasons, but because he's afraid to lose you. He knows he shouldn't try to hold you here against your will, he knows not to fuck up so badly that you'll never face him again, but this is hard. Just thinking about all the years he spent basically in a shell of his own prior existence just to be heard, and seen by his own biological parents. He loved them, somewhat, but ultimately he thinks of them as cruel, and heartless. Only with time will he actually realise how incredibly fucked up his childhood was, and what he did to that poor girl. Silly little murderer.
Obvious facts first, this fella has been alive for longer than you could feasibly even imagine in your small-minded human brain. He's lost himself along the way, or maybe he's found himself? He's picked up things along the way, ways to get his way when striking a deal, or how to avoid a worse fate than he already has. Think of how many times he ripped off people, innocent or not, stolen objects worth more than your whole family's worth in organs alone, and probably wiped his hands clean of it once he grew bored of the endless chase. He sure as fuck doesn't know how to be his own authentic self, if there even is such a thing. He hardly knows himself, he's come to know an idea of himself that is void of attention, love, and any form of comforting touch. He can distinguish right from wrong, but as an existence, he has different morals from humans. Why should he care about the ethics of stealing shit, when he can just have fun while he's still a human until he gets hitched? He has a billion walls inside his head, protecting the sweet gooey core of his existence from outside influence. A tragic childhood will do that for you. On the bright side, he's easy to mould, like warm clay ready to become something bigger, something better. He's spent the last thousands of years wallowing in his own self-pity after realising he'll never be human, so he'll at least give it a try to become better. It will take a lot of effort, and time for him to stick to routines, but you can see that he tries. It's cute, he fails often, relapses even, but he comes to you for comfort. He may not know how to talk to you about his real feelings, beyond harsh lust and adoration, but he knows you make him feel better after he fucks up majorly. Is mainly motivated by the fear of losing you. He is convinced he will end up scaring you away because of something he did or said. He's a big goof, with a big heart, and a load of cringe.
Beetlejuice sleeping headcanons, and laundry day. Mostly just general headcanons, but sleep-themed. The relationship is a little established I'd say.
Not proofread, I cannot read through this all again, my god.
In the beginning, he would throw himself into your bed while you were getting ready to get some beauty sleep, in only his underwear. Whistles at you to come hither, and strikes a pose for you.
Once you allow him to sleep next to you, instead of him just awkwardly laying by your feet like a street dog, he‘s literally glued to you. He‘s so close you‘d think your atoms are merging. Once it gets hotter he has to pay you so you can keep the fan/Air-conditioning on.
The guy sleeps like a corpse, literally. Either he‘s staring straight into your soul, and not sleeping, or he‘s in the most fucked up position snoring away. He shouldn’t be able to be comfortable with the way his upper body is bent, but he‘s sleeping so deeply you‘d think someone beat him over the head with a metal pipe.
Now, I have a question for all of you. Would he, a.) wear some form of pyjamas, b.) be completely nude, c.) wear only his underwear, or d.) wear his whole horribly smelling suit to bed, shoes and all? You'll be the judge of that, but he would probably mould to your preferences.
Does he wear socks? Or would he use his grimy feet to warm himself on your poor thighs? Are his hands warm, or are they freezing cold? I may have just explained how his body could potentially become warm, but how would it have been the first months, if not years you've known him.
Do demons fart? Do demons cough? Do demons have dreams? Well who knows, Beetlejuice definitely does all of the above. If farting obscenely loud was an Olympic sport, he'd be holding that golf medal with his ass cheeks. Coughing is one of his talents, you'd never know at a first glance, but this dude has insane lung capacity. Does his darndest to cough as disgusting as demonly possible. Flexes on you when you caught a cold, by out-coughing you effortlessly. Uses his upper body strength for the extra nasty ones. Stays awake when you have a cold, to mimic your coughs while you sleep.
He unironically says "snork mi-mi" before going to sleep because you made fun of him for his snoring. On that note, he snores loudly. Probably has a deviated septum, and even if he doesn't actually need to breathe he snores insanely loud. You got him a pillow for his neck, so he can get better airflow while asleep. He thinks it's funny when you complain about his snoring.
Stretches like a cat in his sleep. You're not quite sure whether he does it naturally, or he just started doing it because it's funny. Is he even asleep? Only god knows, he's doing it anyways. Usually makes every bone in his body pop for extra flavouring. You've seen him dislocate a hip once, but he didn't really seem to mind, and only put up theatrics to get pity from him.
He doesn't actually need any sleep, to begin with, but he likes lying next to you. Likes how warm your body is in contrast to his, and sucks every inch of warmth out of your body. He doesn't really grow any warmer while he "sleeps" but his body temperature grows tepid, and you could almost say he grows warmer. Sleeping next to him isn't really like sleeping next to another human, but he learns to retain more heat for when the nights are extra cold.
Probably asks you to do a couple experiments to see how warm his body can actually get. Asks you to lay directly on his chest (preferably nude), and wraps his arms around you to basically crush both his and your ribcage. One day he suddenly made his body become a human-sized radiator, so you don't fucking freeze to death when winter comes. He doesn't tell you what exactly he did to find out how to become literally hot, but he seems pleased with this added development, and you're not complaining.
It's great once he's pleasantly warm, and actually tries to make sleeping next to him comfortable. This lad has big boobs, for you to lie on! He is the epitome of comfortable. He is a human-sized pillow. He is so soft. Soft tummy, soft chest, soft arms, soft everything.
Once he realises you actually enjoy spending time with him, he'll become clingier in his sleep. It must be unconscious but he sticks closer to you, while for a change not choking the life out of you. He's grown softer, his body needs your closeness, but he won't make it uncomfortable for you. He wakes up every day rested, and in a good mood.
Sleeping may be a chore in the beginning with this guy, but the real chore around here is getting him out of his fucking clothes. Does he only have one pair of underwear, one pair of discoloured socks and that ratty suit? Well, not for long, because it is now your responsibility to get him to wear something besides his usual get-up. At least long enough to wash the whole ensemble, and do some sort of pest control on it. This may lead to him being forced to take another bath, much to his dismay.
Once squeaky clean he would enjoy wool sweaters, maybe even a turtleneck. He likes the way they embrace his body in an artificial hug. Likes his clothes to be either tight, to accentuate his dad-bod, or incredibly oversized. I'm talking long-ass sleeves and probably falling off of a shoulder with how big the neckline is. What can he say, he likes to be comfy. Likes how they hide his frame, even if he pretends to not be insecure about it. He acts so over-the-top confident it's kind of obvious his confidence is damaged. He's very cute when you compliment him, basically melts into your soft touches.
Uses your perfumes to drench his suit in them, because he vehemently believes you'd never notice how dirty it gets that way. You wash the suit anyways. If you're good at altering clothes, or know just the basics of sewing, he'd love it if you added some patches, resized it, or added a personal touch to it. He likes the idea of everyone seeing how you've improved his suit, no matter how bad it looks. Gets all hazy, and flushed when he's away for work, and spots the new additions of patches, or letters on his suit sleeve.
Likes black, white, grey, and the occasional brown the most when it comes to his personal colour scheme for at-home clothes. (This of course also means that any of your favourite colours would automatically be his favourites due to association. He loves thinking of you). Don't get me wrong, he is a sucker for outrageous outfits that have no real purpose being that fucked up, but he also likes feeling warm and cared for when he's next to his favourite breather. The clothes alone remind him of you, and how you treat him. He LOVES any small reminder of you. He keeps a small vial of your favourite perfume in his suit pocket, probably a strand of hair he cut off when he first got to know you, and a note you wrote him.
Dude's a sucker for you! Does happy dances when he gets to see you again, no matter how long you two have been apart. (Cries when you leave to buy groceries without him, he'll sulk, and pout about it until you apologise for abandoning him). Whenever you're gone off to work, or school he makes sure to cook something for you. He doesn't know how to cook anything really, so you better enjoy that food poisoning, but he'll learn with time. (Think about how he'd make you two a cup of coffee, tea, or juice. You guys are matching!)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Basically just a ramble, on why I think they're both unable to live on their own, and be sustainable.
Mention of childhood abuse/neglect for both these boys, who would've thunk. This may genuinely be upsetting for some, but it's angst with comfort? I like men that are insecure, and depend on me.
As a general introduction I'd like to say, I think of them both as deeply scarred, and traumatised individuals. This most likely isn't surprising, since you're also most likely part of the Slasher community, but I usually try to portray them in not only a positive light. They're both touch-starved, and in need of reintegration into society. They have many needs that they need to have met, some obvious some not. I'll just be rambling here. Brahms' point of view will be answered first, and then Beetlejuice's.
They both dislike the feeling of hand cream on their palms. It's a sensory issue for both, but for completely different reasons.
Brahms wouldn't like the feeling of it because he has dry hands, bruised and weathered with use, and he hates how long it takes to seep into his skin. He hates the tacky feeling of it on his palms, so he always wipes them on his pants. His mother used to have one of those super thick, and "moisturising" hand creams, that work as good at keeping moisture in your body as vaseline. On the downside, it felt like vaseline on his palms. He never enjoyed the feeling, but he did enjoy being pampered, and taken care of. He doesn't like the feeling of hand cream as much now, and can't even stand the mere thought of it being on his hands. Who would've guessed, being locked inside the walls of your house, basically spending all of your adolescence and your adulthood in isolation, would fuck up your mental health. Plus, he remembers that his mother never even truly liked him, he was more of an accessory to her. The thought of it makes him fidget nervously, stress isn't good for the baby.
Beetlejuice on the other hand, is just plain filthy. He also loves getting attention, but he can't keep his hands still. Will always, somehow, get dirt, hair, fuzz, etc. on his hands. He probably makes it his goal to fuck up any kind of moisture that tries to enter his body. It's annoying, but you can't really blame him for being unable to keep still. He's always doing something while relaxing, playing with his hands, ripping holes in his pants, playing in his own mouth and smashing his fingernails against his teeth (he likes the sound of it), or just having both his hands in his hair. On a good day, he just cracks his knuckles, and smushes his hands against his thighs, but on not-so-good days, he'll pull on his hair absentmindedly, or even scratch his cheek open while nervously trying to calm the itch on his cheeks. Holding his hands usually helps a lot, but holding him in a full-body headlock also works. He likes listening to your heartbeat, and it'll distract him enough to snooze a little.
Bad Hygiene. They're both physically capable of cleaning, and tending to themselves, but they outright refuse because why not make you do it for them?
Brahms is, well, Brahms. What do you expect of him? The job description should've made it clear that you'll be taking care of another human full-time. Sure, it never mentioned you'd be taking care of a grown-ass man, but shit happens. You need to shower, and bathe (with) him, or all hell will break loose. If you expect Brahms to be forgiving when it comes to his schedule, you're dead fucking wrong. He won't forgive you, actually, he might as well also rip the sofa apart in deviancy. He's angry, and oh boy, you're going to have to give him space or he might take out the anger on you. Needless to say, he enjoys it when you make sure to lather up his whole body with soap, especially if you're going to spend extra time on his messy curls. He doesn't care whether you have a 15-step skincare routine made for him, or you just shove him into a warm bath with some bath bombs. As long as you spend a handful of hours dedicating your every waking moment to him, he'll be pleased. Will ask you to join him in the bath, and will pout when you reject. Don't let him manipulate you. He may be crying, but only in sound. Not a single tear has been shed.
And then there's good ol' Beetlejuice. Let's be honest, he doesn't really give a shit about personal hygiene. He's lived long enough that he just gave up on even maintaining the little semblance of hygiene he used to have. Doesn't care, scratches his ass every time you ask him to shower, and fucks off in a cloud of smoke. On the other hand, if you mention you might join him, and really turn on your charm he will momentarily forget that he is real, and stare at you wide-eyed as you lead him to the bathroom. He Short-circuits, and starts spasming, while simultaneously trying to stay calm (he fails miserably every time). Even a goddamn giggle from you would be enough for him to get your name tattooed on his chest encircled by the gaudiest heart ever. The embodiment of heart-eyes, and he'll forget to ask you when you'll be joining him in the bath, because he can't believe you are actually shampooing his hair! Your hands do sure work wonders on his skin, but I recommend putting on a double layer of glove protection for the first time, who knows you might catch some long-extinct brain amoeba. Will whine later on about not being able to see you strip, but a smack on the head will make him shut up. He obviously has a bad relationship with self-care because not even his own mother gave a shit about him. I'd like to believe that in whichever way demons start to exist, he used to borrow his mother's soap to scrub himself clean while she was at work, or asleep. She would've probably withheld food (do demons need to eat?) as punishment for waking her up. Not quite certain of the lore behind Beetlejuice universe demons, but you get what I mean. Wrap him up in a big towel to dry him off, find a massive sweater for him to be swallowed by, and he'll doze off on the couch next to you. He deserves better smh.
Inability to initiate healthy intimacy, and or, communicate their feelings. This one's obvious, right? Both of them are as emotionally mature as a grape, so the road ahead is fucking bumpy.
Brahms was, as mentioned before, locked in the walls of his house. One silly little murder, and he gets treated like a war criminal? Geneva convention who. This guy doesn't know how to articulate his emotions without manipulating the shit out of you. He's soooo pitiful, come on why aren't you bending your spine in all the wrong ways just because he's upset? Like come on, give a guy a break! He swore he'd try to work on himself when you two started officially... courting each other. He may not have said it out loud, but he knew he'd end up scaring you off like the other nannies, if he didn't get his act together. Obviously, it doesn't go all too good in the beginning. He believes he'll be able to just do it all of a sudden, and that he's in intune with his needs. Spoiler, he's not. He doesn't even know how to talk to you without making himself seem extra pitiful, and non-threatening. You don't mind obviously - the pathetic guy act, not borderline verbal abuse - and it might've taken some time for you to catch onto how he slightly flinches when his words come out harsher than intended, or how his fingers dig into his sides when he screams at you. His grief is awkward, and lopsided, but he genuinely feels bad. Maybe not out of selfless reasons, but because he's afraid to lose you. He knows he shouldn't try to hold you here against your will, he knows not to fuck up so badly that you'll never face him again, but this is hard. Just thinking about all the years he spent basically in a shell of his own prior existence just to be heard, and seen by his own biological parents. He loved them, somewhat, but ultimately he thinks of them as cruel, and heartless. Only with time will he actually realise how incredibly fucked up his childhood was, and what he did to that poor girl. Silly little murderer.
Obvious facts first, this fella has been alive for longer than you could feasibly even imagine in your small-minded human brain. He's lost himself along the way, or maybe he's found himself? He's picked up things along the way, ways to get his way when striking a deal, or how to avoid a worse fate than he already has. Think of how many times he ripped off people, innocent or not, stolen objects worth more than your whole family's worth in organs alone, and probably wiped his hands clean of it once he grew bored of the endless chase. He sure as fuck doesn't know how to be his own authentic self, if there even is such a thing. He hardly knows himself, he's come to know an idea of himself that is void of attention, love, and any form of comforting touch. He can distinguish right from wrong, but as an existence, he has different morals from humans. Why should he care about the ethics of stealing shit, when he can just have fun while he's still a human until he gets hitched? He has a billion walls inside his head, protecting the sweet gooey core of his existence from outside influence. A tragic childhood will do that for you. On the bright side, he's easy to mould, like warm clay ready to become something bigger, something better. He's spent the last thousands of years wallowing in his own self-pity after realising he'll never be human, so he'll at least give it a try to become better. It will take a lot of effort, and time for him to stick to routines, but you can see that he tries. It's cute, he fails often, relapses even, but he comes to you for comfort. He may not know how to talk to you about his real feelings, beyond harsh lust and adoration, but he knows you make him feel better after he fucks up majorly. Is mainly motivated by the fear of losing you. He is convinced he will end up scaring you away because of something he did or said. He's a big goof, with a big heart, and a load of cringe.
Beetlejuice sleeping headcanons, and laundry day. Mostly just general headcanons, but sleep-themed. The relationship is a little established I'd say.
Not proofread, I cannot read through this all again, my god.
In the beginning, he would throw himself into your bed while you were getting ready to get some beauty sleep, in only his underwear. Whistles at you to come hither, and strikes a pose for you.
Once you allow him to sleep next to you, instead of him just awkwardly laying by your feet like a street dog, he‘s literally glued to you. He‘s so close you‘d think your atoms are merging. Once it gets hotter he has to pay you so you can keep the fan/Air-conditioning on.
The guy sleeps like a corpse, literally. Either he‘s staring straight into your soul, and not sleeping, or he‘s in the most fucked up position snoring away. He shouldn’t be able to be comfortable with the way his upper body is bent, but he‘s sleeping so deeply you‘d think someone beat him over the head with a metal pipe.
Now, I have a question for all of you. Would he, a.) wear some form of pyjamas, b.) be completely nude, c.) wear only his underwear, or d.) wear his whole horribly smelling suit to bed, shoes and all? You'll be the judge of that, but he would probably mould to your preferences.
Does he wear socks? Or would he use his grimy feet to warm himself on your poor thighs? Are his hands warm, or are they freezing cold? I may have just explained how his body could potentially become warm, but how would it have been the first months, if not years you've known him.
Do demons fart? Do demons cough? Do demons have dreams? Well who knows, Beetlejuice definitely does all of the above. If farting obscenely loud was an Olympic sport, he'd be holding that golf medal with his ass cheeks. Coughing is one of his talents, you'd never know at a first glance, but this dude has insane lung capacity. Does his darndest to cough as disgusting as demonly possible. Flexes on you when you caught a cold, by out-coughing you effortlessly. Uses his upper body strength for the extra nasty ones. Stays awake when you have a cold, to mimic your coughs while you sleep.
He unironically says "snork mi-mi" before going to sleep because you made fun of him for his snoring. On that note, he snores loudly. Probably has a deviated septum, and even if he doesn't actually need to breathe he snores insanely loud. You got him a pillow for his neck, so he can get better airflow while asleep. He thinks it's funny when you complain about his snoring.
Stretches like a cat in his sleep. You're not quite sure whether he does it naturally, or he just started doing it because it's funny. Is he even asleep? Only god knows, he's doing it anyways. Usually makes every bone in his body pop for extra flavouring. You've seen him dislocate a hip once, but he didn't really seem to mind, and only put up theatrics to get pity from him.
He doesn't actually need any sleep, to begin with, but he likes lying next to you. Likes how warm your body is in contrast to his, and sucks every inch of warmth out of your body. He doesn't really grow any warmer while he "sleeps" but his body temperature grows tepid, and you could almost say he grows warmer. Sleeping next to him isn't really like sleeping next to another human, but he learns to retain more heat for when the nights are extra cold.
Probably asks you to do a couple experiments to see how warm his body can actually get. Asks you to lay directly on his chest (preferably nude), and wraps his arms around you to basically crush both his and your ribcage. One day he suddenly made his body become a human-sized radiator, so you don't fucking freeze to death when winter comes. He doesn't tell you what exactly he did to find out how to become literally hot, but he seems pleased with this added development, and you're not complaining.
It's great once he's pleasantly warm, and actually tries to make sleeping next to him comfortable. This lad has big boobs, for you to lie on! He is the epitome of comfortable. He is a human-sized pillow. He is so soft. Soft tummy, soft chest, soft arms, soft everything.
Once he realises you actually enjoy spending time with him, he'll become clingier in his sleep. It must be unconscious but he sticks closer to you, while for a change not choking the life out of you. He's grown softer, his body needs your closeness, but he won't make it uncomfortable for you. He wakes up every day rested, and in a good mood.
Sleeping may be a chore in the beginning with this guy, but the real chore around here is getting him out of his fucking clothes. Does he only have one pair of underwear, one pair of discoloured socks and that ratty suit? Well, not for long, because it is now your responsibility to get him to wear something besides his usual get-up. At least long enough to wash the whole ensemble, and do some sort of pest control on it. This may lead to him being forced to take another bath, much to his dismay.
Once squeaky clean he would enjoy wool sweaters, maybe even a turtleneck. He likes the way they embrace his body in an artificial hug. Likes his clothes to be either tight, to accentuate his dad-bod, or incredibly oversized. I'm talking long-ass sleeves and probably falling off of a shoulder with how big the neckline is. What can he say, he likes to be comfy. Likes how they hide his frame, even if he pretends to not be insecure about it. He acts so over-the-top confident it's kind of obvious his confidence is damaged. He's very cute when you compliment him, basically melts into your soft touches.
Uses your perfumes to drench his suit in them, because he vehemently believes you'd never notice how dirty it gets that way. You wash the suit anyways. If you're good at altering clothes, or know just the basics of sewing, he'd love it if you added some patches, resized it, or added a personal touch to it. He likes the idea of everyone seeing how you've improved his suit, no matter how bad it looks. Gets all hazy, and flushed when he's away for work, and spots the new additions of patches, or letters on his suit sleeve.
Likes black, white, grey, and the occasional brown the most when it comes to his personal colour scheme for at-home clothes. (This of course also means that any of your favourite colours would automatically be his favourites due to association. He loves thinking of you). Don't get me wrong, he is a sucker for outrageous outfits that have no real purpose being that fucked up, but he also likes feeling warm and cared for when he's next to his favourite breather. The clothes alone remind him of you, and how you treat him. He LOVES any small reminder of you. He keeps a small vial of your favourite perfume in his suit pocket, probably a strand of hair he cut off when he first got to know you, and a note you wrote him.
Dude's a sucker for you! Does happy dances when he gets to see you again, no matter how long you two have been apart. (Cries when you leave to buy groceries without him, he'll sulk, and pout about it until you apologise for abandoning him). Whenever you're gone off to work, or school he makes sure to cook something for you. He doesn't know how to cook anything really, so you better enjoy that food poisoning, but he'll learn with time. (Think about how he'd make you two a cup of coffee, tea, or juice. You guys are matching!)
Hi Hope u already did one but maybe s/o sleeping without pants because it's hot af and I am dying here :,)
Have a great day/night/morning :D
unspecified so i just did a few short ones for bo, vinny, and tommy.
warning(s): a little suggestive in some places
a/n: sorry this took nearly four months teehee
bo sinclair
* he could care less about nudity. he grew up with brothers, louisiana is hotter than hell. he gets it. however…
* he sees you half naked in any context and his mind is already going two hundred miles an hour into everything he wants to do to you. zero filter zero hesitation.
* assuming you’re already asleep, he’s not going to act on those thoughts. but he’s definitely chewing his lip and gripping the front of his jeans like the pervert he is.
* when you groan and twist around on top of the sheets, something changes, though.
* he’s still imagining himself pressed up on you. but he’s thinking more about how your legs would feel tangled up with his own.
* the twin pumping of your hearts. the feel of your breath fanning across his chest. each other’s hands curled up into one another so hard that his knuckles get sore.
* he wants the marks he leaves on you to be not from his tools, his pliers or his tape or his knife, but from him. his skin on yours. the pressure of your weight on him.
* you wake when he drops his belt and it clinks loudly in the little bedroom. there’s a mild panic in your expression that makes his chest twinge.
* but when he slips into bed and you shift to press the entire length of your body against him. when you fit your chin over his shoulder and hook a leg over his hip. when your breathing returns to the slow in, pause, out.
* that night he dreams of the usual things. his parents, the tourists, the museum. but also of you. just you.
* you making breakfast
* you sitting on the back porch
* you laying with your head in his lap
* for the first night in a very long time, bo sinclair sleeps peacefully.
vincent sinclair
* you’d been wandering around the basement all day in an effort to stay cool, but all the hot wax made it fruitless. eventually you’d vanished upstairs to one of the empty bedrooms.
* he comes up to find you later on, finally peeling off his sweater and tying his hair back for a moment of relief.
* he walks into the bedroom and freezes at the threshold.
* you look straight from a botticelli painting. you look like Bouguereau. you look like Picou and Matisse and Klimt
* you look cut from marble and silk cloth, crystal and soft earth and sun
* you look like sky and sweet and home and being held and warm breath and moving water.
* his breath hitches when the bed creaks under his weight.
* he counts. you breathe two, three, four long lungfuls of the cool blue night air. then you reach up at him.
* vincent gathers you in his arms like you’re quicksilver. like you’re going to dissolve through the bed and deep into the earth if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. like he’ll die without you.
* (he’s convinced he might)
thomas hewitt
* he’s wracked with guilt when he first walks in on you asleep without all your clothes on. Luda Mae taught him better than this.
* but… you’re in his bed.
* he has half the mind to go sleep on the couch, but the heat would be even worse downstairs.
* he says a quick prayer for forgiveness and walks in with his eyes averted and does his best to go about his business getting ready for bed.
* he himself usually sleeps in just a shirt and boxers, but for whatever reason, you doing the same feels… intimate. you’re not exposed in that way, but at the same time, it’s still vulnerable.
* after standing (looming) over the bed for longer than is probably appropriate, he eases himself into bed beside you.
* his eyes wander to the tender apex of your thighs, admiring the soft flesh usually hidden from sight
* you adjust in your sleep, rolling to your back. he watches the lengths of muscle in your legs flex, then relax. your shirt rides up somewhat, revealing more supple skin
* he squeezes his eyes shut and leans back. he shouldn’t be taking advantage of the situation like this. if he has any respect for you, he should be showing it here.
* he tucks his hands underneath his legs for good measure and examines the speckled darkness behind his eyelids until sleep finds him.
* naturally, he wakes up the next morning with you on top of him.
* your head is turned to the side, your ear to his chest. your limbs have fallen to either side of him, but his shirt is clutched tight in one of your hands.
* where your skin meets his, he doesn’t feel the usual startling, crackling sensation of being touched without warning.
* he just feels warm. weight. the pink mark on the side of your face where you’ve been pressed against him makes his mouth twitch with a smile.
▸ summary: “An extremely detailed description of different Slasher dicks.” Hex Color Codes, predictions of exact measurements, what sex would be like; basically, I went crazy with it.
▸ warnings: pure debauchery, very much my own opinion
Just some unfinished thoughts about Beej with a breeding kink. I’m going with two versions: one is Beej breeding you, the other is you breeding him. Reader uses gender neutral pronouns, though in my mind I’m always writing from a transmasc perspective so there will be mentions of y/n using a strap-on (implying y/n has a pussy).
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Sick handjobs, with yours truly, Brahms Heelshire.
Nsfw warning, fellas. This isn't proofread, by the way, I cannot re-read what I just wrote. Good luck!
The deep, and guttural whine leaves Brahms' throat as you massage his exposed chest. His mouth sucking softly on the thumb of your left hand, needy huffs leaving him every second, or two as his own hands frantically explore your body.
You've been teasing him for a good half an hour now, making sure every single urge he could ever think of is thoroughly satisfied. His hips twitch against your thighs, as you're straddling his waist. It's obvious how badly he wants to just shove you off of him, and let into his lust, but you've promised him a big reward if he behaves this time, and he'll surely cash out this time. After all, being riled up likes this is not the worst possible punishment he could think of.
You push away from him slightly, and his open mouth follows you as if expecting you to finally kiss him. Your left hand leaves the warmth of his mouth, and buries itself in the hair along the back of his neck, as your other hand trails down his heaving chest. The excitement of what's to come has Brahms whining like a bitch in heat, as he tries his best at grinding his lower body against yours. Shushing his moans softly, you go and slowly unbutton his pants, to release some tension from his throbbing dick. A mixture of a whine, and a sigh leaves his mouth as some much-needed tension is released from his lower body. A cough racks through his body, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, too ashamed by his current feverish state to put up any resistance to your teasing.
You fondle him through his cum stained underwear, as you tenderly kiss the crown of his head. He had come in his own underwear a couple minutes earlier, and yet he was still so riled up for you, wasn't he? "You're such a good boy for me aren't you, Brahms? Still all ready and needy for me after all the time I've spent teasing you, right?", you coo at him, as you massage, and scratch at his scalp with the hand entangled in his curls. A low moan is the only answer you'll get to your encouragement, as he tries his best to breathe properly through his nose.
You're unsure whether he's sweating due to the arousal rushing through his body, or whether the fever. Brahms tries to speak up, but his sore throat keeps him from belatedly responding to your praise, and all that leaves his mouth is a heady whine, and an incoherent string of words. He's obviously enjoying himself if the incessant rutting of his hips is proof enough.
Your right hand is still massaging his dick through his wet boxers, as your left hand pulls his face out of your neck. Brahms truly is a sight to behold in this state. His whole body is flushed a deep shade, and rich shade of red, and his pupils are dilated to such an extreme you fear they might never return back to their original state. His mouth hangs open limply as his tongue nervously wets his lips at the sight of your predatory gaze. The roles would usually be reversed in these moments, but this time you have the upper hand, with his cock literally in your hand.
Brahms scrunches his brows in concentration, as he tries not to cum right then, and there. A thin line of drool escapes from the corner of his mouth, as your hand relaxes the grip on his hair. Your eyes steadily follow as he gulps down his own spit before more can escape him, and his Adam's apple bobs beneath his skin. His own spit flows over the tender skin next to his Adam's app, and it takes everything in you to not lick up the drool, in case you get yourself sick after this.
Seeing how limp he had gone without even reaching another climax, had you reaching your hand into his underwear to take out his stiff cock. Looking down at your hand, you see him twitch deliciously in your soft grip. You thumb down at his leaking head, and play with his foreskin. The loose grip you still have in his hair loosens significantly as he throws his head back with a loud groan.
Twisting, and flicking your hand a bit, you pick up a bit of a pace and start jerking him off properly. Brahms is so caught up in the pleasure he doesn't even try acting all cutesy and childish like he usually does, and just collapses onto the bed writhing, and panting in ecstasy. You have more than enough time to watch his face contort deeper and deeper into euphoria. Every single noise he lets out is as close to heaven as humanly possible, and you regret not having the foresight to record his voice, as he begs you to go faster. He is all disorientated, as his back arches off the mattress, and his hands clench against the bedsheets right before he comes with a heavy load onto his own chest, abdomen, and your hand.
He's panting, and drooling as he tries his best to get a proper breath in every once in a while, but his fever isn't making it any easier for him to breathe in properly. Brahms' mouth sputters out a string of strange mewls, praises, and high-pitched squeaks as he slowly comes down from his climax.
You mindlessly keep slowly stroking him until his dick stops splurging out his seed. The amount of cum Brahms can store in his body is genuinely surprising, as you watch it spill, and spill almost endlessly from his twitching member. You praise him for everything you could possibly think of. From how pretty he looks panting beneath you, to how nice and good he must feel, and being a good boy for you, you are praising him for even the way his fingers clench against your thigh as he starts to breathe evenly.
You make a mental note to suck him off once he's not sick anymore, and to make him feel even better.
The cold feeling of metal pressing against your side kept you from dozing off properly. It both soothed, and angered your body. Hard edges, and ridges kept your body painfully tensed as you fruitlessly tried to relax your muscles.
To be honest, this has to be the calmest you have felt in decades. You felt a form of the piece you hadn't felt in ages, and you weren't about to throw that sensation away for anything else. While your body ached, you heard no form of harassment thrown at your head, as you laid limply in one or another uncomfortable position. You weren't being held awake by a steady stream of endorphins, and adrenaline- and even better, you could feel your toes!
Even if this was some form of dream, that AM had induced in your mind only to have it ripped away from you, it only meant you could feel a minuscule moment of normalcy. You'd relish in it, even if it meant more horrors were to come.
If only for a moment...
Peace held a bittersweet taste. It may let you calm down for the hours AM wasn't near you, but it made the pain that followed right after sting all the more. You had been disfigured multiple times.
Boundaries were useless with AM. You are his property, and he can do with you as he pleases. "I AM your GOD, why would I bother listening to anything you have to say? You all say the same exact thing. Please don't kill me, it hurts. Oh god, it hurts. I'm so sorry for everything I did, I didn't mean to. Waah, waah."
If AM had a face, it would've been cast into the nastiest grin ever seen. His annoying voice keeps ranting on about how pathetic people are when they're literally begging for him not to kill them, as if he wasn't the one at fault. Your head hurts just thinking about it.
The shrill echo of screams startles you back awake. You may have dozed off for a couple minutes, but you knew it wouldn't last for more than a couple minutes. The scream sounded to be of a man, maybe in his late 30s. It sounded guttural, filled with anguish. The squelching of blood drew your eyes to your left. The vast expanses of AM's insides, and the lack of light made it hard to make out anything that was going on. Not being able to see anything was horrifying, the dim lights of florescent orbs littering the insides of AM's flesh made it harder to see a meter in front of you.
The sound of feet hitting the ground at an aggressive speed made you launch yourself forward to see what was sprinting near you. It sounded human, but who knew if the person would be friendly with you. The gasp of AM startled you, as he screamed in anger at the escapee. Wires around you launched at the body of a man, just short of catching him, as the man jumped, and twisted himself out of the grasp of wires.
Sweat, and blood dripped from the man's face, as it got illuminated by the dim lights in front of him. He looked scared out of his wits, body trembling as he grasped his right arm, ripped seamlessly from his body. He looked angry, livid even as he charged at you as soon as your eyes met. Words formed in his throat as he tried to tell you something, but the walls caved in next to him, crushing him at an inhumane speed.
Gargles of whimpers, and shouts came from where the two walls met, and the booming laugh of AM made you crawl away from what had transpired in front of you on all fours. Oh god, you just witnessed the death of another survivor, and you can't even help him.
"What do you think you're doing, you little rapscallion!" Laughter echos out of all the walls surrounding you and the trapped man in front of you. "Who do you think you are to escape your cage? I even gave you some sublime rotten food! You piece of shit, you useless waste of fresh air!" The walls pulsate as they meet each other in a flurry of crushing speed. It was a horrifying sight. To see how other people were treated by AM made you feel impressed by your lack of crushing, and electrocuting.
A wave of steam, something that could be thought of as a sigh, obscured your vision of the man in front of you. The steam stung your eyes, and hurt your throat as you tried to breathe in air. A coughing fit took over your body, as you crawled further away from the crime scene. Your back meets the cold wall behind you, and you pry yourself upwards to stand on your, still intact, two feet.
Tears prickle your eyes as the air clears, and your vision returns to normal. There is no trace of what had transpired just a second earlier. Not a single speck of blood, or viscera is left in front of you. The body of the man has mysteriously vanished, and everything looked the same as it had before. Your eyes look along the veins of wires, view perfectly clear like a doctor's office. The remnants of rotten food that AM had given you a day prior gone, and the ground was swept clean.
Cold wire travels over your torso, and you're hoisted like a sack of rice into the air. More wires split from the thicker, longer wire, and inspect your body. It's invasive, and disgusting how they aimlessly travel over the expanses of your body. The metals sucks any semblance of heat from your body, and you are left cold, and aching.
"Nothing happened. How boring. Luckily you're not hurt, and the escapee has been taken off in due time. I didn't really want to keep him alive any longer, anyways." AM emotionlessly drones on somewhere above you. His voice is quiet, and calm, not like it usually was. Less imposing, more probing. If he had been human you'd think he was deep in thought, but you knew that he wasn't.
He lays your body down on the floor again, and just leers down at you from above. He could crush you right now if he wanted to, but he just stayed silent as you tried to regain your wits. This change of atmosphere was new to you. Not once has he been quiet when he came to harass you. He always had something to say when you two met up.
The air hisses as the vaults right next to your head open, and display something to you. A small vile of thick water-like substance is laid before your face. Grasping around the small bottle you are left confused. Was he planning on poisoning you again? You'd rather just chug the liquid down instead of having him order you to do it himself, and lose out on a meal tonight. The liquid is cold, and stings your throat as if you had drank rubbing alcohol. It becomes progressively hard to focus, as The vault closes back up, and your limbs grow tired.
Am says something above you, but you cannot discern what, and the cold feeling of metal encompasses your body. Something heavy lays down on top of your numb body, helping you keep some of your warmth.
"Goodnight, my sweet little specimen." You hear the voice above you echo, as you lose consciousness.
dededos
prguitarman
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
vaporwave
