#pocwriters

he’s not too big and definitely not too little— just strong and built and firm and fuck

his arm wraps nice around your neck, your body pushed into the bed while he pumps into your sticky pussy, wet and messy and stretched.

air seems like something you’d forgo to be like this all day, caged under him with his big arm around your neck, the swell of his muscle tucked pretty around you, just tight enough to make your head swim, his other holding him up.

even still, carmen can't just take what he wants, so he's trailing his kisses from your neck and up your jaw, gracing your ear with his soft question, "you okay?", still rocking his hips against your ass.

poetic prose novella | 8k words into first draft | tw: suicide drug use

> NOCTURNALIA is the story of V--., a young woman with no past and no one to turn to. Her boyfriend Corey just drove into a lamppost and they don’t know if it was suicide or just an accident. But he’s back from the dead, haunting her, trying to get her to die with him. 

Just as she’s about to pull the plug on life, her guardian angel, Alua, arrives on the scene. Alua is determined to keep V--. alive by showing her the drug-addled underbelly of the City of Collioppius. Surely partying hard enough will show Alua that life is worth living, even without her undead harp-playing boyfriend. 

She sleeps all day and stays up all night. She is a part-time go-go dancer. Join V--. as she drops acid, fucks capital-g God, and sprints down the line between life and death at top speed. 

> Part One:

I.

I am the anti-fae of the power plants. I eat iron and lurk under street lights like a bad smell. I wear black, white and gold. I flicker in and out of parties, alt-dimensions where time doesn’t go straight. I dig out raves and basement shows. I slide through those chaotic spheres like a shadow, pressing my lips to the forehead of anyone who buys me a gram. Sometimes I’m a go-go dancer, half-specter, half-naked. When you see me in my panties and virgin skin, it’s only for a second. Then I disappear into the crowd.

 II.

I’ve been anti-fae for six weeks now, but nighttime still holds novelty. I’ve been using it to indulge my deepest sadnesses; each one is a mass of velvety despair in my gut. Gunmetal-heavy, they anchor me to the world. My eyes are forgetting the sting of sunlight, my mind the concrete-eating anxiety of interacting with baristas and bank tellers.

To be seen by people is my great anxiety.

This is one of the main reasons I took so well to nighttime. At three in the morning, no one asks if I’d heard any good music lately, or if I’m planning to go to the grocery store that afternoon. I can hold my marbles of sadness inside me and treasure them like a dragon on a mountain of gold.

I’m in Corey’s apartment on the living room couch. The lights are off. Through the window, I watch the dark parts of the vacant lot across the street. (Maybe something inside them watches me, too.) It’s filled with debris; the City has summoned me here with nothing but a tire iron and a fire pit. The way someone might put words in the mouth of God, I imagine what this place might tell me if it could speak. I will find you in the dark. I will pick you out like a bug in my hair. I will find you nocturnal. 

tagging nobody bc nobody is on this taglist, lemme know if you wanna be on it <3 

peter’s big, in multiple senses of the word. you both know this. he’s tall, and he’s buff, and, you know, he’s hung. . so it’s a process when you want him and he wants you, even if it hasn’t been that long.

kissing on the couch ends up with you bent over said couch, cause why walk stumble to the bedroom between kisses and touches and grabs when peter’s mumbling between one kiss and tug of clothes and another “couch, darlin’, right here’s good, anywhere’s good” and you oblige, kissing him again before you turn around and arch your back pretty how he likes it, jolting a little when you feel his hands ghost up the backs of your thighs

and yeah, foreplay helps— one, two, three of his fingers sliding slow and smooth inside you while he reaches under you to tease your clit— but he’s still big, and you can only take so much foreplay before you’re pushing back on him and throwing all caution to the wind. “just put it in,” you’re begging, and quill knows it’s gonna take a while to actually do what you said but at this point, fuck it.

pussy drunk carmy ❤️❤️

him thrusting sloppily into you, his hands on your waist and tangled in the messy sheets, his mind spilling out through his mouth— his desperate whines and huffs, “you’re so fuckin’ good.”

carmen’s a desperate fuck, gets lost in the feel of you around him, lost in the saccharine wetness that you let him indulge in.

“‘s so— sweet, so fucking sweet.” is all he can say, his usually fast moving brain sluggish and full of nothing but you. “sweeter than anything, fucking— shit.” he cuts himself off, falls quiet just to listen to your candied moans, to soak in the benevolent warmth that he can’t believe he’s been graced with.

your pathetic, lovesick moans meet his ears, float on top of his unbelieving groans, his mind unable to really understand how he feels, what he feels, the way you make him fucking feel.

and your hands are roaming his body, pulling him closer and deeper into your welcoming body, rolling your hips against his.

carmen’s so fucking gone.

“s-shit, can’t- can’t fuckin’ take it, you’re so good to me, baby, you’re so good to me.” he shakes his head at his words, bright blues squeezed shut, his way of grounding himself.

something along the lines of being bent over wiiliam’s desk in his office, thrown over mountains of paper spread over his desk while the words almost swim across the pages.

tracksuit pooled around your ankles, the red fabric pulled down hastily to let you and william get to the business that he finds much more important than counseling people on what jobs to get, it’s a show of desperation with how he fucks into you.

your shirt and jacket are splayed by the chair near the door, he’d pulled them off a couple minutes after you entered the room, after the candy scent that always follows you filled his nose as he hangs onto your every little word, his blue eyes dilating like a fuckin pavlovian dog, his whole body pumping blood to his cock at your smell, at the sight of the sparkling glitter that hangs onto your entire being.

your hands grip tight at the old wood, colorful acrylics sliding, trying and failing to find a tether as steve sends your body pressing into his desk. his hips are strong and rough as they slap wildly against the soft curve of your ass, big hands draped over your waist and digging just a little too hard into your dewy skin, a soft sheen casted over you, your back shimmery with sweat and sparkles.

stretched is how you feel, filled an even better word for the way he makes a home for himself inside you, fucks you so good you drool onto the desk beneath you, a disgusting pool of slick spit that you know he’ll see as a trophy after you’ve both had your fills.

a soft chuckle meets your ears, a rough hand slides up your thigh and it has you shivering, clenching down on his cock as he huffs out a groan, his eyes transfixed by how your body rocks forward and your ass ripples with each of his firm thrusts.

stu’s eyes light up with a madness that you only see when he’s inflicting pain on someone.

you should be scared, should be fucking terrified of him, but you’re not.

stu’s eyes only light up this way when he has you like this— backed up against the kitchen counter with a knife to your neck, the cool metal just daring itself to cut you.

“what,” he asks, pressing his body further onto yours. he’s hard. “scared i’m gonna cut you? hm?” he’s always hard when he has you like this. he’s a sick fucking freak.

“no.” you shake your head against the knife, swallowing air through opened lips. you’re wet, always are, and you’re sick for it too.

“yeah?” he breathes, trailing the knife from your throat to your jaw, almost giggling when you flinch. “you’re lyiiing.” he sings, his insane smile growing wide across his face.

a stutter and a heavy breath are all you can give him, and it just adds more fuel to the fire consuming you. body humming, heart racing, your thighs pressing tighter with every second his wicked eyes linger on your terrified expression.

he gets closer, lips gracing your other cheek, shuddering out heavy breaths. “i could just cut you soft, hm? so you bleed, but don’t scar.” his tone is amused, he’s having fun playing with you. “i wouldn’t scar you baby, just wanna see the red. you’d let me, mhm?”

you would, god you fucking would. you’d let him gut you from the inside out if it meant he’d be satisfied, if it meant you’d get to see his eyes flash dark because of you.

another heavy breath is what he gets. before you answer, he’s pressing the knife harder against your jaw, flirting with the idea of drawing blood from you, right here in the kitchen.

his eyes fly from the knife to your eyes. he hums, when they meet. he knows your answer.

and he’s pressing hard enough to get his fill, to see your crimson stain your amber skin. with hazy eyes and a slack jaw he watches the knife break your skin, his violent tendencies assuaged by you. “so pretty.” he purrs, and it’s almost child-like, airy and giggly, like he’s seeing a rainbow grace the sky, and not red drip from your face onto your clothes.

it hurts, but it hurts so good. senses dialed up to 100, you’re on a high. the smell of the food you both were cooking clings to the air, cold marble presses against your back, the air conditioning hums in the living room.

and stu. everything is him. every fucking thing is for him.