#voidica writes

His.

The word echoed in his mind, making him sigh into the warmth of your body pressed against him. You had said it, you had pleaded it. That you were his, that you belonged to him. The thought of it clung to his mind like a leech, draining him of all other coherent thoughts.

His. You were his.

You had cried it out when you came on his tongue, around his fingers. You sobbed it out when he pushed in, and you drooled the word all over the bed sheets when he filled you. It drove him mad each time. His, you were his, you gave yourself up to him. Sure, he was yours, that was a given, but you? His? You were the loveliest gift he's ever received. He wanted—he had—to give you something as thanks.

There's a little bit of shuffling around the bed, a gaping coldness crawling up his once warm arms and chest. He reaches out, thinking that maybe you simply rolled over in your sleep, but only the echo of your warmth against the bed sheets greets him. Discomfort laced up his arms and into his chest, slicing through his previous calm. Plenty enough to make him open his eyes. Make him brush aside the warm welcoming darkness and face the glaring sunlight.

That bitter twinge of cold left as quickly as it came. Evaporated in the warmth of you, gracing him with such a sight so lovely that he had never really considered before. Still naked, you presented to him your back bare and soft in all it's glory. Golden beams of light streak against your skin like a spotlight of sorts, letting him trail his eyes down the various marks that litter your skin all the way down to your ass against the bed, barely hidden by the blankets. Soft marks mar your softer skin, reminding him of how tightly he had held you, and how he had bit you oh-so sweetly the night before. "Evidence of your love" you called it once, when he was less sure, when he was far less selfish.

But you were his. Wasn't he allowed to admire you? Allowed to mark you?

Wasn't he allowed to have you?

You stood from the bed. Stood, left. Oh the audacity of it all. How could you leave when he hadn't given you his gift yet? As quickly as he could, he reached out, careful not to accidentally shove you away, and slipped his arm around your waist pressing his hand against your stomach. He gave you a moment, let you gasp in shock at being grabbed, let you realize it was him, let you realize he was holding you and not intent on letting you go.

And then, when you began to giggle, about to comment on something coy, he pulled you—yanked you—right back into bed. Back to his awaiting embrace and his very, very hard cock.

Gods, the temptation to just take you right then and there makes his stomach flip. He doesn't of course. There are other things to do first. It didn’t matter how much he wanted you—how much he longed for you. Muriel still had some decency.

“Morning,” he hummed, a little rough around his tired voice.

Held so tight to him, Muriel felt it. The shiver that raked you from head to toe, made your rear quiver ever so slightly against his too hard cock. You reply in a strained gasping voice. So soft, so sweet, so hungry.

"Good Morning."

And a good morning indeed. You, warm in his arms, squirming against him, the soft sunlight pouring through the window, your soft rear pressed right against him. His fingers begin their trek up and down your hips torn between the many places he could dig his fingers in to hold you. Did he want to go for your chest? Oh so gently rub at your nipples like you so teasingly did to him last night? Did he want to refresh the marks at your hips or squeeze the flesh of your thighs? Did he want to spread you open and just— no. Not yet. This was your gift, wasn't it? Perhaps you should decide these things...

"Do you need something?" He asks, as if everything's just fine and he isn't currently seconds away from combusting. "Are you hungry? Do you want some water?" If you really did need something... He didn't want to be stealing you away from your own health.

Softly, still a little strained, you chuckle. Giggle actually. The sound alone makes him smile. Grin from ear to ear, burry his face against the warmth of your back and neck.

"Just you, I suppose."

Him? You need him? You have him. He was yours as much as you were his.

And fuck, how did that rile him up more than you being his? He was yours and you were his? That felt so... right. So safe. As if, between the both of you, these two truths held an entire universe. And he supposed there was. He was yours, you were his. Six words felt so feeble in the expanse of your love.

"But you have me," he taunts, just a little. "I'm right here. What do you want?"

And if only to drive you more insane, he kisses your shoulders and your back, biting fresh marks against your spine. Though his arms are wrapped securely around you, his hands find purchase on your hips and he squeezes in that possessive way that could almost leave bruises behind, in the way that makes you instantly melt against his skin.

The sounds you make, soft whines and whimpers as he squeezes you only ever spur him to keep going. To give you more and make you even more pleased with the predicament he's trapped you in. His fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, spreading your cheeks a little as he does. It taunts him just as cruelly as he does to you, letting him push his cock between your lovely cheeks, but he holds back form all but shoving himself inside of you. After all, he has yet to hear a reply. One hand pulls back a little to settle on your hip where he pinches you, just a little. Just enough to pull your focus back in.

You yelp, and for a moment he isn’t really sure if you even remember his comment at this point. “Please, please Muri. Want your cock. Please. Wanna be spread wide…please? Wanna make you feel good.” And he moans at that, burying his face in your neck once more.

Didn’t you know? You always made him feel good. Even while rutting into your rear you made him feel so good. Everywhere you touched would suddenly turn into a place of pleasure for him. Dragging your fingers along the inside of his wrist, raking your nails against the back of his thighs, tracing patterns on his muscles, spattering kisses along his spine… anywhere—everywhere—you touched, was surrendered to you. He surrendered to you. He bowed at your feet as you laid claim in kisses, soft trailing patterns, and little dents raked in by your teeth or your nails.

And so rather than reply, Muriel abides by your wishes. Flipping you over, so he can see all your pretty expressions, he leans back enough to grab his cock, he stroking himself as he lines up to your drippy core. He hasn't even pushed in yet when a fat white glob of cum drips from your fluttering hole and Muriel all but trembles at the sight. Cum from last night, still dripping down your legs… oh you were far too kind to him.

Selfishly—hungrily—he wants to keep you stuffed like that. Filled to the brim and then some. Have you leaking out hours later— days later. He wants you to feel how much he loves you. How obsessed he is with being with you. Because, you surely can't know can you? Not to it's fullest extent.

His words hardly scratch the surface of his love, all those hours he always wants to spend with you, all of the sweet domestic activities like bathing and cooking, the smiles and hugs and kisses, none of that could truly tell you how much he loved you.

Then again, he supposed fucking you to an inch of your life couldn't exactly explain it in all it's grandness either.

It was just one aspect of love, just like all the others. But it was a part that he reveled in. A physical way for him to profess how much he loved you, all without needing to talk too much, or if he did, he wouldn't need to worry too much about what he was going to say.

All he needed to do was push, and be honest.

A sputtered gasp tore past his lips as he slipped back into your warm wet heat. Amazing. You felt amazing. He felt like he was flying, like nothing in the universe could ever be better, he felt on the verge of collapsing, like he was a single step away from falling off a cliff.

You felt so good….

you felt so good.

How else could he say it? You clenched around him nice and tight, moaning and whimpering his name…

It was safety. It was connection.

It was peace.

It was torture.

He's just pushed in and already, he felt as if he were on the verge of cumming. Gods, could he be any more selfish? This was why he had learned to pleasure you first and foremost. Get you to cum on his fingers, cum in his mouth, on his tongue. He could hardly ever survive a minute inside of you.

And yet, longing and starved, faced with the look of pure unbridled love on your face, a dollop of drool dripping from your lips only adding to your beauty—the sight of you, already fucked stupid, had him thrusting away, chasing his release like you were little else than a toy to help him cum. As if he weren't hyper-focused on your expression—on your eyes. Tracking when they'd swivel up into your head, when your lashes would flutter helplessly shut as you braced yourself for that pleasure.

He wanted to give you so much pleasure… give back everything you were giving him.

So focused on your eyes, on your face, on your moans—so focused on your expression, he ignored your hands up until it was too late, until they were tangled in his hair yanking  him down to your lips for a life-ending kiss.

It was as if the world had flickered suddenly from day to night, like everything good and soft, and warm and kind poured down from your lips and into his lungs, leaving him to both burst and bloom under the gentle caress of your lips.

He would never get used to kissing you, especially during this. It always felt like his whole world was being flipped, pleasure being granted a new indescribable depth. His dick inside of you and his lips against yours. It was the purest form of pleasure imaginable. Only made so much stronger by the emotions attached to it. The emotions you elicited in him.

He loved you.

He loved you so, so much. You were everything soft and kind and beautiful and tender, and when he was tender too—sensitive, hurt and raw—you'd simply trace your fingers over his seams, and kiss him. You'd kiss him stupid, kiss him until all the world fell away, and Muriel knew nothing else but tender softness, found between your lips. You’d kiss him until he was healed through, or until he was okay with the soft spots.

His hips slowed, and he leaned further into your kiss, chasing a completely different high.

He'd kiss you forever if he could. Kiss you so hard and thoroughly that you'd become addicted to him, just as much as he was to you. He’d kiss you until you could feel just how much he loved you, how much he wanted you here, with him. He’d kiss you forever

Your hips shift a little under him twin moans bursting past the edges of your kiss as you’re both drawn back to that other hunger that consumes you. 

And yet Muriel can’t bear to leave your lips.

He whines like a child when you pull away to try and calm your breathing and whines again, even louder as your hips grind back onto him.

“Please…please… wanna… gonna….” You're panting out the words, chest heaving as you stare up at him with those lovely lust-blown eyes.

Gods you look divine. Swollen, kiss bitten lips glossed over with drool, your face pleasantly warm from all the exertion. And that unchangeable look of pure love.

Whatever you wanted. If he could give it to you he would.

And this? This? This he could give to you.

It’s your gift after all.

And yet, because he’s selfish, he cups your cheek with his hand and leads you back to take another kiss.

Slowly, he resumes thrusting into you.

It’s so much better and yet so much worse than before, getting the taste of your lips and hearing those deep and guttural moans pressed against his tongue like a treat, feeling you squeeze down on him tighter somehow, fluttering wildly when he hits that sweet spot deep within you. One of your hands falls from its hold on his hair, dropping instead to clutch his back, dig your nails into his skin. Hold him closer, closer, closer. Close enough for him to melt into you and never let go.

He has to lean back. As much as it pains him to tear himself from you he has to lean back. It's only a moment and yet the cold air seems so stark against his warmed skin. In any other case he could have called it relief. Now? It’s heartbreaking. But he needs to see you. Needs to watch as you fall apart. He doesn't pull back far enough that you'd need to release your claws from his skin—he wouldn't dare—but you still whine as if he had pulled out entirely, as if he had left you, abandoned you.

A deep thrust back into your welcoming hole. Oh he hoped you didn't believe that. Your nails dug deeper into his skin, a silent demand for him to return to his place pressed flush against you.

He cradles a hand to your cheek, hoping it'd satiate you, hoping it would draw your attention back to him—keep your attention on him, so that he could see you, so that he could meet your eyes as you fell. And you did, you met his eyes,  struggling to keep focus as his hips still rocked into you, but pressing him into the same predicament, as you wrapped a hand over his own, and guided it to your lips, kissing and licking at the palm of his hand.

Ahh, how cruel you were. He was supposed to be thanking you. Show off how he was yours just as much as you were his... But how was he supposed to do that when you were so.... So kind? So generous? So giving? So, so, so....Wonderful.

Then again, maybe this showed that he was yours too, how you could push him right off the edge with a mere kiss to his hand.

The sound that escapes him then is a strangled mess of whimpers and whining, like some sort of kicked puppy sobbing out in the rain. Only he wasn't exactly sad; suffering maybe, but he loved every second of it. Squeezing him for every drop he was worth, the tightness began to grow overwhelming as rope after rope of his sticky release filled you, and dribbled onto the bed, but even then he wouldn't stop thrusting. A part of him swelled in delighted pride at his determination to keep filling you with his cock—with his cum—but another part knew full well that he was just stuck on the pleasure at this point, unable to do anything but press himself into you because you felt so, so, so good around him, and he just couldn't get enough. He could never get enough...

His arms collapse from the crash of his release, and though he does his best not to crush you as he retakes his place against your skin, you welcome him eagerly, with your open arms, your face already pressing itself against his skin as soon as he was close enough.

Your breath comes in deep heaves, gasping gulps that Muriel finds himself copying as he tries to regain his sanity, his mind, his anything, from the mess of fluids on the bed. Maybe if he looked close enough he could find the patch of bed that absorbed the sanity he had been drooling out mere moments ago.

But to do that, he'd have to get up. To do that, his legs would have to work.

To do that, he'd have to pull away from you.

Even if he wasn't weak with pleasure, he doubted he'd be able to muster the strength for that.

From the little window of the hut, golden sunlight begins to pour into the room. The day already long since begun uncaring of any bodies that linger in bed. Eventually, hunger will follow the daylight, and he'll be spurred from bed, to prepare breakfast. And after that, there's work on the garden that needs to be done, and chopping some firewood won't hurt to ensure a healthy supply through the next cold night. There was a whole day waiting just outside the confines of your bed.

But the day could wait just a little longer.

And maybe you'd join him in the call for your chores, in the need to get things done, you could stand up beside him cuddle right up to his side, as you worked on your own chores by his side.

Or maybe, just maybe, with a longing hunger still lingering on your tongue, you'd pull him right back in.

Sometimes I think about cock warming with Muriel.

I feel like it'd be something done to kind of try and get him used to being inside of you, a reassurance if you will that he won't hurt you and for him, it's a sort of reassurance that you can take him—that you're stretching yourself out to get used to his size. I don't think he's anything too incredible length wise, he's just particularly thick, so a good stretch is to be expected.

I can't help but imagine you just interrupting him while he's painting or reading or something (Not carving too dangerous) to sit in his lap. And maybe Muriel doesn't think much of it initially, he quickly realizes what you're doing when you pull off your pants, and begin to meddle with his, and it's something you had discussed beforehand but now he's just flustered and almost panicking, and when you slowly sink onto him, he's completely disregarded what he had been doing earlier. He's a mess. Whining and groaning at the feel of you squeezing him and yet he's completely unable (and kinda unwilling) to move.

It by no means was any hard rule for him to not start thrusting up into your warm tightness, but he really did want you to get at least more used to being stretched around him, and boy were you stretched.

You're trying to distract yourself with your own book, your own stuff, but it's not working really well when Muriel tucks his face against you and wraps his arms around you like a hug—like he's caging you in place keeping you from escaping, or perhaps more accurately, keeping you from moving.

He's so thick and you can feel him twitching inside of you, as if he were about to cum at just this.

And the sounds he makes when you squeeze him are amazing, soft and sweet and needy and desperate. but the longer you sit, and the more he's able to just hold you and get used to holding you, the more soft and snugly and cuddly you get.

Where initially Muriel seemed like he was a particularly tight squeeze away from biting down on your shoulder or neck, he's now just spattering you with kisses. Where he once held you tight as if he feared you might move, his hands now roam freely, trailing up and down your back beneath your clothes, squeezing your exposed waist and butt.

Not to say that he isn't still moments away from release, but he seems much more relaxed, over time.

You follow his lead tracing your hand up and down his back, although it's much harder to get your hands under his shirt to do to him what he's doing to you. He'd eventually take off his shirt for you though. whether that be because you asked, or if he wanted your hands on his bare skin.

And fuck if it isn't nice to feel every twitch of his cock when you trace your fingers over a particularly sensitive area, or kiss or bite his skin. He may stifle his moan or whimper, but his cock betrays his interest.

And you keep trying to kiss him while he's trying to hide his whimpers and moans—trying to keep him from chewing his lips as hard as he does to stifle the noise because, well you want to hear him.

You tell him as much between your kisses, but he still falls into the bad habit when he feels particularly dizzy from your love and affection.

Though it was initially to get the both of you used to all of this, Muriel is definitely finding himself loving the softness of it all and how he gets to kiss and hug you and touch you when he doesn't have to focus on moving carefully inside of you, how he can still feel every squeeze and jolt right to his cock, how he can feel your every reaction—not just the squeezing mind you, but how you shudder, and tremble against him sometimes, or how you lean in closer and hold him just as tightly as he holds you. If given the chance, it's something Muriel would definitely love to do again with you, just focusing on the kisses and touches, while his cock sits inside of you.

oooooohhhh but if you have a cock of your own, or you're willing to use a little aid, Muriel would die at the idea of having it switched around, with him sitting on you. He'd end up so blushy at the idea, reflecting how he'd look amidst it all, red faced, unable to relax for almost the entire time, too worried about being too heavy for you, while feeling every shift and twitch of your hips inside of him. If you mention it without following through right away he's fantasizing about it for days trying to build up the confidence to beg ask you to please please please stuff him full....

There is something about holding your breath and biting your tongue that makes a person's teeth itch if done for too long. Perhaps it was the attitude of a caged animal. How starving oneself of the small ordinary things, made them hungry for the extreme things.

The first time Muriel felt his teeth itch you were sitting in front of him, wearing his cloak instead of a shirt, to keep away the cold. Your clothes had been soaked and now hung by the fire, and you sat beside them, wrapped in rough but warm fabrics, to dry yourself off. It was to feel the warmth of the fire, you had argued, as you let the fabric slip off your shoulders, revealing the bare skin of your shoulders and neck, lit orange and gold by the firelight.

And his teeth had begun to itch.

He opted instead to cuddle up behind you, kiss your neck and kiss your cheek, but it didn't stop the way his teeth seemed to hunger for something all on their own.

Especially now.

Looming over your exposed body, open just for him, Muriel glares down the soft patches of flesh that made you up, tender areas he's long since memorized, and revelled in being able to touch and hold and grip and kiss.

And yet, despite all that pleasure he had wrung from your body with kisses and soft touches, it never was quite enough. Desire thrums in his chest like a second heartbeat, driven by the urge to sink his teeth into your skin, to draw sound instead of blood, and leave mere bruises instead of scars, laving his tongue over sweat-slicked skin, in a silent plea for forgiveness.

Drool pools along his tongue at the thought, like some feral animal thirsting for meat. For something to eat whole, to eat alive.

And that of course was the worry.

Phantom sensations arc their way through his teeth, the feeling of sinew and muscle the taste of fresh blood. He's never bit his opponents as a gladiator, but he's seen some people who tried. Seen how feral and terrifying they looked. He's seen a desperate fighter latch themself onto their opponent, biting and tearing till their lips were soaked in red.

What if he bit too hard?

Beneath him you still lie open, pliant, soft as ever, hands trailing down his chest, and over his softer midsection, squishing and pressing your thumbs into his skin as your hand goes lower and lower, pausing to brush at the hair that trails down into his underwear. 

At this point in your relationship he knows you're more than willing to talk him through the things he wants, willing to accommodate the things he calls greed labeling them instead as basic need. Things like comfort things like soft touches, and sometimes a tight pinch. Things like play fighting, things like... This.

You chuckle when he hums, leaning into your touch, letting you comb your fingers through the bush of hair below, letting your hands explore whatever you want, even if both are made so much harder when he's so much closer.

The desire to bite ebbs away from him, and he feels safe tucking his face into your shoulder.

Your fingers slip their way beneath that last layer of fabric, wiggling their way through the now tight confines to wrap around him, first with your pointer finger and thumb, a small little circle around the head of him, and then with the rest of your fingers, brushing against his sensitive skin as if hesitant—or more likely, teasing—before settling against him, a tight and firm hold.

His own fingers, twitch at the need to show you what he's learned of your body. How he remembers what you like from what you've told him—what you showed him—those very same nights you learned what he loved from you.

Not everything, of course, his teeth still itch with the need to bite, aching in the threat of tasting blood.

He drools, swallowing his own spit as if he was drinking. Whether from that hunger of his jaws or the feel of your hands pulling him free from his underwear, he wouldn't know. He wouldn't say.

He tries, really truly tries to pull back before he drools all over your shoulder, feeding into that temptation that lingers around his mouth, but you finally manage to slip him free from his confines, despite how he's pressed against you and entangled around you, letting him feel the soft flesh of your thigh—you shuffle, your stomach now, against the warmth of his cock, even with your fingers still caging him in. Your thumb slips over the head of his cock, rubbing at the very tip, in that way you know he loves, from the way he sounds when he moans, higher pitched than his voice should be, whining and whimpering at the sensitive feeling.

He needs to bite you.

Hold his teeth against your skin as you tease him, let him hold you in his teeth in return. Leave his mark just as you sear your touch into his most intimate areas.

Hold, mark—Bite, bite, bite. He has to bite you.

His teeth have nearly bracketed your shoulder, hot breath fanning against already hot skin, and his mind screams at himself to not, to slow down, hesitate, to move slowly before he bites down, if he bites down at all.

And it all comes crumbling when you squeeze him in your fist again, slowly moving your hand as you begin to jack him off. He only barely manages to pull back in time before his mouth snaps shut, muffling a strangled moan as he holds himself back, arms bracketing your head.

And you watch it all. Watch him try to stifle that moan, and stifle the second one that your hand continued to encourage from him, all while trying to swallow the drool that drips past his lips.

"Muriel?" you ask, innocently, as if unaware of how you so easily took him apart piece by piece.

He can't reply, mind too torn about the feeling of your hand on his cock, of your other hand tracing lazy lines over his scars. He's practically memorized their every location now, not because he remembered the pain of them, or that he looked at them often, he didn't he really, really didn't, but when you trace your fingers over each and every line so often he's since learned to anticipate your touch against the raised ridge of skin.

Your smile falters, and your hands come to a tragic halt against his skin. Pulling back and pulling away, agonizingly slow.

He wants to grab you by your wrists, press you back where he needs you

And open his mouth and bite and—

"You good?" Your hands curl around his neck, one hand entangling itself in his hair, loose and light, the same way you do when you comb his hair with your fingers. There is no force behind the action, but it soothes him down towards you either way, slowly lowering himself back down so he can press his chest back snugly against yours, curl himself around you, on top of you, in that way that you've said made you feel... Safe.

He thought it was more like caging you against him once, but if it makes you feel safe, he'd press himself against every inch of skin he could find. It's nice to snuggle against you. Nice to be able to curl up atop of you like this.

He hums low and nods in reply, tongue still struggling to form words even as all those starved urges grow soft around the edges. As evidence to his point, he presses a kiss against your neck, your collarbone, your cheek, your nose, the corner of your lips, kissing and kissing, like an apology, and a profession of his love.

I still love you. Please don't think I don't love you.

It makes you whine a little, being plastered with so many kisses, and so much affection, giggling as he begins to kiss you even more, with more earnesty, grabbing you by your wrist and pulling you even closer when you try to hide from his kisses.

"Muriel—! Ah! Pffft—nooo!! Stop! Stop!" He listens, because of course he does, grinning down at you as you catch your own breath, still wheezing from your squeaks and whimpers and endless giggles. "Okay," you pant, still giggling a bit, as his hand traces up and down your arms, your waist, wherever he can reach really, whatever soft and tender part of you that he could reach without causing you too much.... Well too much anything at the moment.

With your free hand, you once again wrap yourself around his neck, this time with added pressure intent on pulling him down towards you. His compliance to your tugs, rewards him with his lips snugly against yours for a deep, loving and longing kiss. The type you give when you haven't seen each other in days. The type he uses to say, I miss you. The type that says, I'm so glad you're here. The type that always means, I am here with you, and I love you, I love you, I love you.

You break the kiss first, looking just as dazed as he feels, even as you smile up at him with a knowing look in your eye.

"So, what happened?"

He blinks, and takes a moment to gather his tongue. "What do you mean?"

Your hand has since moved from the nape of his neck to cradle his cheek, his own hand, once caging your wrist in his loosening grip, now wiggling its way to twine his fingers with yours.

"You wanted to bite me." Muriel's breath falls short. "Why did you stop?"  And fuck if it didn't just fall shorter—if that were even possible.

The drool comes back a hundredfold, bringing with it that itch and urge. What would you sound like when he first gets the chance to bite you? He's already leaning in, body acting without his mind, thinking only to feed that incessant hunger for a taste, for a chance to listen and watch. He tries to redirect it, landing kisses instead of nibbles, though he can't help but feel gravitated towards your neck and shoulder that first place he wants to bite.

"What if I hurt you?" he manages to hiss against your skin.

You push him back from you with a few taps of your free hand against his chest, untangling your other hand to hold it up to him, a little offering in the early morning light. "Open your mouth."

Though he hesitates as he does, he slowly parts his teeth, preparing himself for what he knew you were so irrational to do.

You press the outer side of your palm against his teeth, with your pinky and ring finger caught up in the fray.

He knows what you're going to tell him. His chest tightens at the notion, and he wonders if he'll have to tell you no. That even if he had been the one to want it so badly...

"Just hold me with your teeth."

Again, he hesitates, but not so much for weariness as he would have been before. It still startles him, even now when you slow down and wait for him, how you seem so keenly attuned to his pace in the first place, and were always somehow so willing and ready to pause just for him.

He holds you, teeth barely digging into your skin, and sighs at the trickle of relief, It's a relief that makes him want more, but he wants to move slowly for this.

"You can go stronger now, I'll tell you when it hurts."

His teeth begin their slow decent downwards. Your neck probably has a lot less bone than your hand does, but it still allows him to feel the swerve of muscle beneath your skin, feel that layer of skin at all. It's resiliency, it's thickness,

"ach—ah, ow, there. Stop.” You tap his jaw a few times with your free hand to emphasize the point and he follows your command.

His jaw loosens, just a fraction, to memorize the feel of your skin bending to his teeth, how your bones and muscles and sinew swivel beneath his teeth. When he lets go, he takes the opportunity to marvel at the indentations left behind, lifting your hand back to his lips to kiss his mark. And again, and again, and again, he follows the line of the marks his teeth left behind.

It would be gone my tomorrow morning, and he expected the same to happen along your shoulder and neck, but that didn't matter. He'd learn to get used to it, and bite more, and more and more, and more. To practice, of course. Simply to get better at biting you

Lips still pressed against the skin of your palm, Muriel mutters a reverant, "Thank you." before he leans back to your face, and gives you another kiss.

It's another way of keeping you in place, honing your focus in on how he moves his lips against yours, needy as ever, and only asking for more. Free from his hold, your hands cup the sides of his face, as if to tether you in place, or perhaps tether him in place, as you hold him close, fingers digging ever so slightly into his cheek, into his neck to keep him from pulling away.

He does so anyways, but only to return to your skin, kissing across your cheek, and slowly drifting down towards your neck

"Thank you," he whispers again, and again, and again, and again. Giving you a kiss between each profession of thanks.

And perhaps it's the distraction, the focus on the kisses, that allows him to catch you off guard like this when he finally holds his cock to brush it's head against your already well spread, wet and inviting hole. The keen you let out from the slightest tap against your opening already has his dick twitching in his hands, but it doesn't deter him for long. After all, he doesn't want to risk his self torture of holding back and teasing to result in an early mess.

It's a thank you in a way. Letting him bite you, giving him the okay, and not being weirded out by his urges... Talking through them instead of judging. He has to pay you back for that.

Or no, well, he doesn't have to.

But he wants to.

He wants to give you what you want, and telling by the sloppy happy melted  look that spreads across your face as he pushes in, this is absolutely something that you want.

Hah, as if he didn't thirst for this just as badly.

You're so tight around him, the first squeeze of filling you up to the brim, the first push even after fingering you until you've cum over and over again, the first push in always felt just a little tight in the most delightful way possible. Squeezing and twitching around him,

His mouth falls open when he finally settles himself fully inside you, and snaps shut with that first thrust of his hips, filling you to the brim, earning him the most delightful noises from your lips, half strangled whimpers and half starved moans, punctuated by the raspy gasp of his name. You struggle to form words, half muttered splutters leaving your lips as you squirm, but your hand furiously pats his cheek, and he lets you go.

Bitten in such a rush, it leaves a deep indent in it's wake. Though he knows it does little to soothe any actual pain, he kisses the marks he left behind, as he sits still inside of you, letting you catch your breath, letting him catch his own.

"Sorry," he mumbles eventually. "Did it hurt?"

"No," you pant, "no, nothing too painful just—" a full body shudder cuts you off when he kisses a section of teeth marks sitting close by your neck, "—Surprising."

He pauses, mouth still against your skin, but still manages to peer up at you.

"Bad?"

Your eyes glitter something deadly.

"No way."

Oh, it's all the motivation he needs to open his mouth again, and land another bite. This time it's just a little lighter, more controlled, more careful. This time, you let him sink deeper as he bites into your shoulder.

"Muriel." Your hips buck against his your desperate, needy plea clear as the marks against your skin, even if only to him.

He pulls back, not just his hips, but he leans back as well, supporting himself on his arms, as he looks down at the marks he's already made, the effect they already have on you, the soft giddy smile already growing on your lips...

He opens his mouth, hovers just by the tender parts of your neck, and ever so carefully bites down, as his hips crash home. He's careful now, cautious with his mouth even as his hips continue to thrust sloppily into you, chasing his growing high. It's familiar now, how you stretch around him, how long he needs to wait for you to be prepared, the signs, the exceptions to those signs. He knows your body well already, but this...

The soft sounds you make, when he bites you, the giggle you give him when he kisses the bruises afterwards. How you wince and whimper, and yet pull him so tightly against you when he bites so close to your neck, when he bites just a little too hard. The look you give him when he pulls back to look at you, bleary eyed, and yet so intent on the chance to look up at him, smiling, happy, even as he marks you like this...

Welcome to this sideblog! This is an 18+ sideblog for my smutty fanfics and drabbles, for whatever fandom I happen to be in at any given moment. Tags for each fandom can be found at the bottom of this post.

Picrew icon from here.

My main blog is @paperstarwriters where I post most of my fanfic content and reblog whatever I find interesting at any given moment. @psw-recs is where I reblog the smuttier fanfics on here that I read there are also a few more tame things in there but that's either because I was formerly too embarrassed about blatantly enjoying certain fandoms at the time, or I didn't want to pester my followers with something they may be incredibly uninterested in.

Feel free to continue to refer to me as Paper, but try not to ask me anything smutty on my main blog.

anyhow this blog should mostly really just be me posting thirst and smutty fanfics. Those may be rather few and far between just cause I sometimes struggle to write smut. It's a strangely difficult medium you know?