
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from Slovakia
seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from T1
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Slovakia
seen from T1

seen from Austria
seen from South Korea
seen from Malaysia

seen from Indonesia
seen from Russia

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

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.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Bite
Draco's in the library poring over an Arithmancy problem.
He chews on his sugar quill, scrunches his nose like a cute bunny, then slaps his hand on the table.
That means he's figured it out. I know all his little quirks and ticks.
Draco scribbles on his parchment, absentmindedly biting his lips.
Another habit I'm familiar with.
The sight has heat pooling in my belly. I want to run my hands through the blond hair, kiss those plush, bitten lips...
"You're staring, mate." Ron interrupts my thoughts and I grumble irritably. I can't wait till our secret rendezvous tonight.
July Prompt #3 - @drarrymicrofic | Song Prompt - Bite by Troye Sivan
Your congregation misses Alfie bear: what do you think baby Alfie was like? Was he the fabled ladies man (with that sweet, baby face). Was he a heart breaker? Did he have a special lady?
Hooooo buddy, this knocked something loose. My response follows, in multiple parts, over the span of who knows how long. Weâre tagging/calling it Bitten Lips because Camdenâs not in South London, but the lyrics in this song hit the same chords that your ask did.
Bitten Lips: Part 1/?
You were his very best friend growing up. Meeting on the shared playground between your respective primary schools wasnât an unusual way to start a friendship. But kicking a boy in the side of head to save your not-yet-friend from a schoolyard beating probably was.
Five- or six-years-old was still young enough for neither of you to enact that silly learned shame of a girl defending a boy from a bully. Instead, it forged camaraderie between two scrubby outcasts. And when you were sent to the corner for bad behavior, it taught you that comfort could exist in the shape of Alfie Solomonsâ hand on your shoulder.
For all their rapid fire curiosity, children tend to obsessâsuch was the nature of your fast friendship. School and sleep were mere interruptions to the important matter of life: playing in the rich world of your bizarre little imaginations.
âYou canât touch a dead bird!â you scold him one day when he bends to pick it up off the sidewalk. âGranda says it fills with faeries and then youâre IN for it.â
Alfie had met your grandfather before and secretly thought he was mad in the head. But better safe than sorry with faeries. âJust a featherâs alright. So weâll not have any bad omens.â
He plucks one from its tail, the iridescent purple and blue flashing like magic against the black of it. You ask him what an omen is, and he says, very smartly, âlike a dream or a sneeze or any shivery feeling, really.â
He lets you keep the feather. Tells you heâs got lots of talismans to keep him safe, that theyâre in box under his bed. But you never see it. He plays at your house often, but you never visit his, and you never see the box of treasures. You ask him if itâs nice, having both a mum and a da, and he says heâd rather be like you, with just the one. âMums yell, but I donât think they hit.â You agree with himâno hitting as far as you knowâand count yourself lucky. âBut heâs not around much, just his hat on the peg.â
âŠ
Time passes steadily. His father disappears and Alfie seems glad for it, but probably a little sad, too. You both grow up a bit, arms and legs stretching like taffy and covered in clumsy bruises. You each make other friends, and his mock him for spending so much time with a girl. But he bloodies a nose and earns his reputation defending your honor. Youâre old enough now to know violence isnât ladylike, but youâre secretly quite thrilled that he threw the punch.
You spend less time playing, but more time talking because adolescence is an embarrassing nightmare, and it seems like thereâs some fresh new torture in store each day. You still pass most evenings piled on your bed, free from shame with one another because itâs Al, and itâs you, and neither of you count as the rest of the awful world.
You flick aimlessly through a schoolbook. âJosephine brought lipstick back from her holiday in Paris, so now everyone else wants to wear lipstick, but I think itâs just silly, itâll get all over my face!â
Youâre not sure heâs heard you at all because he launches right into his own worries. âRight, well, Jimmy Zaraâs got hair under his armpits, so he says heâs a man now, and heâs beinâ a right prick about it.â
You contemplate the idea, unused as you are to even considering an armpit. âDo you have hair there?â
âNo.â Thereâs petulance in his voice as he picks at a scab on his knee.
You can tell heâs disappointed. And though youâre not sure why, you think it best to encourage him. âGood. I donât think Iâd like it if you were a man.â
He scowls, but then a smile cracks through as he nudges your shoulder with his own. You donât have any words to talk about a beautiful face yet, but can feel that his is lovely, even when he wrinkles his nose. âYouâd look like a clown with lipstick.â
Youâre wearing lipstick now, and you press your mouth tight together at the memory, standing in front of an office door with Solomons writ across it in gold lettering, âplease donât let him think I look like a clown.â
cr. bitten lips / do not edit
your lips my lips rosy lips tender lips bitten lips

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.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Drafts--Alfie Solomonsâ Unsent Love Letters
(Installment #1 | 1914)
Neshama sheli,
I mustâve started this letter a dozen times. Then we move, something hits, and it seems a foolâs errand--explaining this shit. I could bore you with the cliches: digging trenches like digging your own grave or gripping to one nice memory, tryna get yourself through the lonely night. Thatâs all true enough, but it donât capture it, not really. Hell exists, and Iâm a fucking Captain in it. Canât even lose myself to the nihilism of it all. Gotta give orders to the boys. Gotta send âem to their inevitable fucking demise. How many times has war been described in a letter to a lover, you think? âBout as many times as loveâs been described, I suppose. âBout as many times as a stupid manâs died for nothing. But fuck me, Iâve not even got you as my lover, have I?
Truth is, I donât wanna write this to you. Donât wanna send it to you. Everything smells of death and I donât want this shit clinging to anything that makes its way into your perfect hands.
Fuck me, none of thatâs what I wanted to say, but I ainât starting over again. What I wanna say is that I could cry for want of kissing you. Donât cry when a man dies, didnât cry when a bit of shrapnel tore through my cheek. But I have to choke down tears when I close my eyes âcause you live on the backs of them now and it hurts. Like thereâs a hole in me and icy wind blowing through it. A cannon fires or a mine blows and my eyes shut and youâre there smiling and I canât fucking live with myself. That color your cheeks turn when youâve had a nip of whiskey or a glass of wine, class that you are--thatâs my favorite color now, and I didnât touch it once, and Iâm a fucking fool for waiting.
All these years spent loving you...I was gonna blow into Camden like a goddamn train to kiss you dizzy, hear you whisper my name, ask you to wait for me. Finally, I was finally gonna do it. But they fucking took it from me. Took my chance, sent me straight here. Maybe itâs for the best. More than likely, Iâll be blown to bits. And more than likely the world wonât be any fucking less for it. But if Iâd kept you waiting? Well, weâve already covered not being able to live with myself, yeah?
Pray to God someoneâs kissing you sweet like you deserve. Cursing God itâs not me.
-Al
Bitten Lips (Part 7/7)
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5Â || Part 6
Instead of turning you, he reaches around to slide the zipper of your dress down your back. It puts your nose right into the front of his shoulder. With both hands, he peels the fabric away from your skin like opening up wings and you shiver. Itâs more than just flesh heâs exposingânearly feels like your rib cage is open and your heartâs there for the taking.
You donât realize youâve whispered his name until heâs pulling back to look at you. âAlright?â he asks, and you nod so fast that you dizzy yourself because youâre better than alright. So he kisses your temple and brings his hands over the front of your shoulders, still clasping the back of your dress, so that it falls and gathers at your hips. You hear a clipped little intake of air and blush from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes.
His hands raise to your collarbones, just light touches with his fingertips, reverent and wide-eyed. You make no effort to hide your shivering as you push your dress past your hips to puddle at your feet. Thatâs when his hands start roaming, drawing scorching lines down your sides and up your back. You watch his face through heavy eyelids, cataloguing every time his nose flares and his mouth twitches when his fingers smooth over a swell of soft skin or his eyes catch the rising of goosebumps. When his knuckles glance against your nipple through your silken slip, both of you catch a moan mid-throat. You step closer to him until your chests meet and you curse the slow pace youâve set because youâre on fire like this. The faint brush of fingertips, the shy glances--age has done nothing to quell your nerves. Your sweet Al is touching you like itâs some great privilege for him. And he kisses you as he pets. Soft, giddy pecks and slower, dragging lips and every so often, his teeth nipping at your tongue. He palms your ass with one hand, pulls you flush against him, and you break away from his mouth with a gasp because his cock is hard and that means he wants you and that means you might somehow disappoint him.
âIâm scared, Al.â
You didnât know it until youâd said it, but it was true--you were frightened. Frightened that youâd built this moment up too much, that youâd somehow idealized all of it...frightened that things would turn awkward...but above all else, frightened that heâd lose interest in you after tying up this loose end.
He moves both hands to your face, lifts it to look at him, and kisses the very tip of your nose. âIâm right here, love. Youâre safe with me.â
You struggle to look him in the eyes. âWhat if itâs not...what if Iâm not...â you shake your head.
âLook, love...you are my wildest fucking dream, yeah? In the flesh. Better, in the flesh, than ever in my dreams.â He scoops you up into his arms, even though the bedâs only a step away, and rests you against the pillows. He shoves his trousers off as you settle in. Then he sits beside you, lifts your hand to his lips, and smiles. âLook like you fucking belonged here all along.â
The soft sincerity in his eyes is enough to calm your fears for the moment and you sit up at that suggestion. âShouldnât have let you leave,â you whisper against his cheek with a kiss. âShouldnât have taken Frank to that ball, either.â
He chuckles and pulls you in for a proper kiss. âI was a prick about it, you were right to put me in my place. Just made me so fucking angry, watching him make you laugh. Watching him get a kiss from you.â
That little admission of jealously, and the kisses turn sultry, have you curving a hand around his neck to pull him closer until youâre all but in his lap. Between them you whisper, âno more kisses for anyone else, hm? Just my Al?â
He devours your mouth at that idea, then pulls back just enough to breathe his next confession between your lips. âAlways wanted to be your first.â
âMy first kiss?â Itâs something youâd wished for, too.
His lips brush against yours, but he doesnât seal them. âYour first fuck. Not a fuck, though, something sweeter. Like this, maybe. Just wanted to do proper by you,â he says, smoothing your hair behind your shoulder. âWanted to have that first together.â
You donât say anything in response, and that worries him. But then you crawl the rest of the way into his lap and shimmy your slip up over your head. You drag your fingers through his hair and place your mouth just below his ear. âBut my darling Al, you were my first. In the best possible way.â
He makes a curious sound, wanting clarification but not able to ask for it because youâve sucked his earlobe into your mouth and youâre stark naked in his arms.
âFirst orgasm I ever had,â you whisper right into his ear. You feel him growl, more than you hear it. âI was thinking of you. I know they say youâre not supposed to touch yourself like that. But it feels too good to really be evil, donât you think?â
Youâre not sure where the sudden confidence has come from, but the brazen language has him grunting and groaning, and you wouldnât stop those sounds for all the world. His arms come up around your back and he lays you flat.
âWhat did you think of?â he asks, almost shyly.
You smooth your palm over his shoulder. âYour hands, mostly. Iâd think of your hands touching me, any part of me, and shivers would bloom everywhere.â You can hear him swallow, and then his fingers start tracing a slow path down your stomach, past your navel, into the soft thatch of hair between your thighs. One thick finger slips between your folds and you whine. âYour lips, too. God, Al, youâve got the loveliest mouth. I imagined you testing every inch of me, just to see which spots liked your kisses the best.â His mouth tucks into the crook where you neck and shoulder meet and laves at your flushed skin.
âAnd you thought of that, of me? Until you came?â
You nod frantically, suddenly a little shy about the admission. But it only spurs him on and he slides two fingers into you, twisting and stroking and crooking them like heâs been doing it all his life. You try not to think about the idea that heâs had practice.
âWhat did it feel like?â he asks, between nips to your neck.
You shiver at the recollection, which youâve kept fresh, invoking it over the years when you needed to pretend that things had gone differently. âLike...like flying. And maybe a little bit like dying. Breathless and warm, everywhere. You smiling soft, and telling me you love me. You lingered on the backs of my eyelids like that for a moment. And then...â
It hurts to finish the thought--the remembered realization that he wasnât there beside you, to kiss and cradle you back to your senses. Just a cold and empty bed.
âThen?â
âAnd then you were gone,â you say, waiting until he lifts his face to look at you. His lips are red and shining, his eyebrows drawn together in distress. âNever felt so lonesome in my whole life.â
He meets your mouth with a searing kiss, tight and desperate. âPromise, you never have to feel lonesome like that again, yeah?â He slips his fingers out of you so he can guide his cock and your heart flutters when you feel the head of it press in.
His steady push drives the breath out of you both and he swears âfuckâ through gritted teeth. There are so many ways of being together that you hope and pray to experience, but this--having him nestled inside of you like this--draws your heart up into your throat. Itâs why you feel choked when you say his name.
He holds still, braced above you on one arm as he tries to collect himself. âSo fucking perfect,â comes out as stilted breaths, his forehead pressed to yours. âShouldâve always been you.â
You hold his head in both hands, clench your cunt around him, and he whimpers. âWeâll make up for it,â you assure him. He nods and starts thrusting: long, dragging strokes out so that you can feel every inch of friction, and deep, full strokes in that spark fire through all your nerve endings. Itâs like nothing youâve ever felt, and youâre momentarily convinced that out of the entire universe, this one man was made for you from the start--that youâd met all those years ago because he was the path and the way to total fucking ecstasy. But the truth was far sweeter, and you knew it when he whispered, âwant you to feel so fucking good, love.â He wasnât made for you, nor you for him. Youâd picked each other, and wanted, above all else, to bring each other happiness. And on your end, at least, happiness was never sweeter than when caused by your Al.
You cling to his shoulders as he picks up his pace, and you give up trying to muffle your cries. Itâs too good, he feels too fucking good to repress anything, so you kiss him. Sloppy and unrestrained, just the distilled need to have your mouth on his, your breath twisted up together. He pulls one of your legs high around his back and youâre lost. The angleâs divine, his cock is divine, his heated breath and the smell of his sweat are all so sacred to you that the dying feeling starts flickering.
âMâclose,â you mumble against his shoulder.
He puts a hand beneath your head and directs you to look at him. âBeen waiting years to watch you come apart. Let me see, love. Let me see you.â
Tension, tightly strung tension from your eyebrows down to your arching feet, curling around every part of him. Out of your straining throat comes your gratitude, your confession, your release of guilt, your greatest happiness: âI love you,â breathed against his temple, like maybe the feeling will live in that hard head of his and keep him company, always. As soon as youâve got it out, the whole world untangles. Every muscle turns to liquid, every bone light as a feather, and in the whispering ache of your cunt, you feel his own warm release. Through the wooly fog of your afterglow, you hear his choked relief and almost immediate light laughter. Your hands are still clung to his neck, fingernails raking through his shaggy hair, and an airy laugh escapes you, too. You stare at each other, really stare at each other with shining eyes. In wonder, perhaps, or complete adoration. He looks bright, almost young, and for a moment, you could nearly believe it was fifteen years earlier.
He smooths the hair from your sweaty forehead and kisses you there. âWill you stay with me?â
You laugh, high and bright because youâre giddy. Absolutely drunk on him. âIâm a puddle, Al. Iâm not going anywhere.â
The back of his hand runs against your cheek, so softly, so affectionately that your heart blooms all over again. âFor good, love. Will you stay with me for good?â
You know the answer already, but you let the moment linger, just to imprint the dazzle of it. You hold his hand in place, turn your head so that you can kiss the backs of his knuckles, and nod. âSpent too many days without you as it is.â
He falls asleep before you do, mouth soft as he snores gently, and you canât look away. But for the first time, you donât have to look away. You can openly adore and delight in him. And when he wakes in the middle of the night from another dream about you, for the first time, it doesnât break his heart. Because your hand is pressed right above it, holding it safe.
Bitten Lips (Part 2/?)
Read Part 1
âI wasnât nervous.â
He comes barreling into your bedroom, hands dug into his pockets, face red as a beet, rambling about kissing Edie Powell. And when you dare ask if he was nervous, he snaps back at you like a viper. Itâs all you can do not to shove him out of your room because for some reason, you feel like youâre going to be sick all over your freshly washed sheets.
âWell youâre nervous now.â Since you have no interest in parsing out why youâre seething with rage at the thought of him kissing Edie, you disguise your anger with that motherly tone he likes to tease you about. You expect more clipped venom from him, but instead, he softens and sits next to you on the bed.
âYeah, âcause I mighta done it wrong.â He pauses and pulls clenched fists from his pockets. âDinnit know what to do with my fucking hands.â
Heâs started swearing in the last few months, and the habitâs already stuck. As a supposed young âlady,â you think you ought to act offended. But it suits him. It makes him sound less angry, somehow. Like he packages up all that teenaged angst in the punchy syllables and gets it out of his system. He seems ready to talk through whatever happened, but youâre not sure that you are. âYouâre acting like it was your first kiss.â
He rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. âFirst proper kiss.â
âProper?â
âYou know...â one of his eyebrows arches. â...you know.â
You shrug your shoulders, even though you do know. But you donât want to think about it with Edie in mind.
He stares at you like youâre daft, and youâd be offended if it werenât kind of endearing. âOh come on...you...open your mouth.â
You stare at his mouth and imagine it open. Against yours. Which is also open. A little thrill fizzes through you and you shake your head.
âIâm sure it was fine, Al.â
âYeah, well, maybe fineâs not good enough.â
Fine never had been good enough. Itâs why he made Captain so quick, why he was the King of Camden Town, king twice over if his tattooed hands had anything to say about it. âCause letâs be honest: if youâre going to break a holy law, best do it in excess. So two crowns, one near the webbing of each thumb and forefinger--right where the world can see, yâknow, as he drags it to him. As he kneads dough, and lifts jewels to the light, and wields that mighty pen of his to scribble out all the prophecies that keep London in his grasp.
The crown on his right hand suspends upside down a few inches from his mouth when he scrubs thoughtfully at his beard. And when thereâs a knock at his door, it drops in defeat.
âBusy, fuck off.â
He awaits Ollieâs soft-spoken insistence, nearly impossible to hear from the other side of the thick wood. But something high and bright cuts through instead.
âIs there a better time? Someone I can schedule with?â
Itâs a familiar voice, but muffled. Heâs on his feet before he can figure out why it feels like heâs being haunted. Thenâs heâs gripping the knob and turning it and swinging the door open wide and seeing you. Seeing you for the first time in nearly fifteen years and forgetting how to breathe and not knowing what the fuck to do with his hands.