#squibsmusings

booze breath, unkempt hair, loose tie. wheezy laughs, sarcastic quips. pudge pushing against my belt buckle.

another man's stubble grazing my lips. a woman's nails carving love into my back. my bed is a stranger's pit stop.

malt and frevor. cigarettes and loss. smiles and delusion. i have everything to lose and nothing to gain, always. a domineering attitude. default, snappy anger. the world is as much a victim of mine as i am of it. my rage stews and bubbles and bursts. i destroy just as much as i break. my sobs are hoarse adlibs to a bird's morning song. my voice fills dingy bars and flashy clubs: swanky, deliberate. my hips swing loosely to husky blues. an air of mystery clings to the shoulders of my blazer, alluring to-be enemies. i’m loveable only in the moment. my words are traps. my promises, suggestions.

my nights are a disorienting swarm of colors, music and pleasure. my days are series of half-truths. the hangovers in-between feel like everything i deserve. i'm a shit-eating bastard with a smorsgabord of perversions. i'm carved out of flint with the world's dullest hunting knife.

pervy pre-op wizard who's dick comes in all shapes, colors and sizes.

himbo paladin that lets you top him after you both slay a dragon.

cleric who insists on healing you while you're shirtless. she's a fair maiden, she swears, but goes green with envy whenever she sees your top scars. a few years later, he shows you his own.

zealot elf who you convince to ride your strap. his god wills it, after all.

incubus who has holes and goals! including but not limited to: pick-pocketing all your gold after sex. at least he lives some behind. a tip, if you will.

clumsy level one warlock who can't do anything and just loves when you help him out. your hands are all over his waist as you teach him proper form. you bully his g-spot with curled fingers as he recites spells–concentration practice.

slutty drow. that's it.

shy aro tiefling and deadpan ace human who you treat to sloppy dungeon sex and cute date nights respectively. one sees stars and the other orders slime wine with bounty money.

society prods at the borders of your turf: ballsy teens on dares, pigs with caution tape, dreadfully alone souls looking to feel something.

hunters. wolves don't play with their food. however, there's something beautiful about armed men gawking like scared deer, drenched in moonlight-silver sweat, yards of advantage wasted by the second. when you don't maul them, you use them. after pinning one to the ground, you ram his ugly cock into your hairy mancunt. he babbles with fear-laced arousal. you laugh, and tell him to take it like a man. large canines brandish your smile.

he laps hot spend from your sopping folds and engorged clit. he's your toy for the night, an easy outlet for your heat. grainy, yarn-webbed photos span his corkboard at home. none compare to you in the flesh, frenziedly riding his mouth and stiff dick. you're a depraved, unkempt thing who feeds and slaughters and mates.

what becomes of him as the full moon peeks past a cloud is lost, as is your humanity. eventually, you wake up covered in the usual: blood, sweat and slick.