she/her. 30something. les mis will own my heart forever, but i am currently overtaken by the pitt and animal kingdom *coughshawnhatosycough* i peddle sm*t and angst wares, both fandom and not-fandom, at archiveofourown.org/users/agentinfinity mobile header by lovely-oasis.
All of my OCs or reader characters are afab!readers unless noted otherwise.
My AO3
Animal Kingdom - Pope Cody
Blowing Smoke (x FOC, smut, fluff, angst)
Broken Ships (x reader, angst, Smurf dies differently, feelings)
You're a Warning Sign (x reader, angst, Craig gets shot and reader does questionable surgery)
Les Miserables - Enjolras/Grantaire (m/m)*
The Art of Tattooing (D/s, BDSM, oral sex/blowjobs, flogging, impact play, and exhibitionism)
Intro to Business (D/s, Light BDSM, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, Restraints, kind of, Suits, Anxiety, Mental Health Issues, Art, as described by someone who knows very little about art)
*This is from a series where Enjolras and Grantaire are porn stars. There are several more parts, but they're all posted on AO3 instead of here. The series can be found here.
Prompts and Such (angst, violence, bdsm, smut)
The Old Guard - Nile Freeman/OFC (f/f)
Hold Me Close (oral f/f sex, flirting, fingering, canon-typical violence, temporary character death, mentions of human trafficking (not to OFC), hurt/comfort, trauma)
See That Light Go Out Again (Hold Me Close in Nile's POV, oral f/f sex, flirting, fingering, canon-typical violence, temporary character death, mentions of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, trauma, staring into the void of millenia of living and wondering what the actual fuck)
Original/Autobiographical Work - m/f, f/f, bdsm, D/s
Sexcapades: A Love Story - This is a series of writings that I've done over the years that chronicle my and my partner's (and our other partners') sex lives, memoir style. It's mainly sex, but it's also our lives through the lens of sexual exploration.
As in almost all cases, this isn't a case of a computer DELIBERATELY being made to discriminate, it's a case of a computer RECKLESSLY being made to discriminate. Which isn't even a tiny bit better, but is an important distinction for when we talk about the dangers of this kind of thing.
AI is trained off of available data. Available data is about the real world, where racism and sexism and all that shit exists. Unless you carefully put effort into making sure that bigotry is EXCLUDED from the training, it will by default be included.
We've known this forever. There is no excuse. They don't bother, or they do a shitty job at it, because they want to make more money and carefully curating your own custom dataset without racism in it is not only extremely difficult, but very expensive.
Summary: When Craig introduces the other Cody boys to Essie Morgan, a street racer and mechanic from back East, Pope is instantly intrigued. What he doesn't like, however, is how much more she's started smoking under the influence of Craig and Deran. So, what is Pope to do when she suggests a smoking alternative that will satisfy her oral fixation?
Tags: 18+, drug use, grinding, fluff, smoking, Pope is just trying to survive this crush and Essie openly wants to fuck him, nothing too smutty this time because we're establishing our characters and the tone 😘
A/N: I don't know anything about illegal street racing beyond what I've searched up for this, but I do know about Appalachia, which is where Essie is from originally. I'll be using slang from the area where I grew up, so if y'all see something that doesn't make sense, feel free to ask. This takes place at the beginning of season six, so everything up to that point is canon, but there will be divergence from there.
WC: 4.1k
Masterlist
Essie Morgan had been spending time around the Cody boys for a few months now, having bonded with Craig after winning a race in LA that he had attended. She’d made a name for herself in the southern California racing scene since arriving in the area a few years prior, and now she owns a garage on the edge of Oceanside, just outside the Trujillos’ territory. Everyone who was even tangentially involved with the illegal side of LA racing knew about the girl from back east with the backwoods accent and a propensity for knowing the exact right time to pull into first place and win a race.
“I’m telling you, man,” Craig’s pupils are dilated, and he’s practically vibrating as he speaks, “she was an absolute demon. Fucking insanity.” He was just finishing regaling his brothers and a few others with the tale of her last race without her even having to speak a word. She’d allowed him to ride shotgun with her, and she’s pretty sure he was about to come in his pants as they passed the finish line first.
She can relate. Winning is simply the best.
Essie is floating on the high of some spectacular weed as she listens to Craig still spouting her praises.
She thinks it’s funny that he’s so enamored by her driving, yet has only offered to fuck her once. He seemingly chases any beach girl with tits and a pussy, but she told him once she wasn’t ever going to fuck him, and he backed off completely. He obviously still has some kind of crush on her, but Essie thinks maybe he just really likes fast things. Cars, bikes, waves, whatever.
She lights a cigarette and leans back further against Deran on the outdoor couch, enjoying her high, courtesy of Deran and his incredible weed dealer. She lets the conversation and sounds of the party waft over her as she inhales slowly and traces patterns in the smoke as she exhales. Deran looks down with a smirk playing on his lips and plucks the smoke from her fingers, taking a drag before handing it back.
“You feeling good?” he asks, voice a little raspy as he holds onto the smoke while he talks.
“That’s some good shit, darlin’,” Essie drawls, grinning and taking another pull from the cigarette before dropping it into a nearby plastic cup.
She feels a tingle on the side of her face and smiles, closing her eyes and letting her thoughts float wherever they see fit. Pope has always stared, but not just at her. He notices almost everything, whether he mentions it or not. When she opens her eyes just a bit and slides a glance over at him, he’s definitely watching her, but the slight, open-mouthed smile he gives her when they lock gazes tells her that he has definitely partaken as well.
His shoulders had been tense, back straight when she arrived, but somewhere between Deran handing her his joint and this moment right now, Pope had gotten high too.
She closes her eyes again, knowing that he’s still looking, and thinks about what it might feel like to lie against Pope like this. Tucked under his arm, warm, safe, and content.
Then, she thinks about what it might be like to be under him or on top of him. His intense expression and focus all on her. She hums quietly, smiling without meaning to, and Deran reaches down and squeezes her elbow.
“Good thoughts?” he asks, his own smoke between his lips now. She returns his earlier theft and takes a long pull before handing it back. Looking back at Pope, she notices that his expression has changed into something more thoughtful than before.
“I’m horny,” Essie gleefully tells Deran, laughing when his eyes widen just a touch and he shakes his head.
“That is not something I can help you with, Es,” he informs her as her laughs lapse into chuckles.
“What if I had a dick under this dress?” Essie asks, sitting up slowly as his body literally pulls back and away from her. She leans over and belly laughs at his expression, listening to Craig and J laugh too, but not Pope.
“Do you?” Pope asks, confused, his glassy eyes wandering down her body. Essie snorts inelegantly, which makes Deran roll his eyes. Pope instantly looks ashamed, but Essie is quick to reassure him.
“No, honey,” she tells him, rising from the couch on unsteady legs and making her way over to his chair, resituating herself across Pope’s lap. His arms come up and wrap around her automatically, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her bicep.
“I don’t got a dick under this dress, but if someone wanted to lemme borrow one, I’d give Deran a go.” His confused expression flattens out into a small frown, and she reaches up and tries to smooth it away from his mouth, her fingers pressing into the lines around the edges of it.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, slightly muffled but seemingly content to let her do whatever she wants.
“Tryin’ to get rid a’ your frown.”
“Why would you wanna fuck Deran if you had a dick?” he asks once she's given up trying to get rid of the unhappiness on his face.
“Because I think he’d like ‘at sorta thing, and I always wanted to know what it’s like to fuck someone with a dick of m’own.” Deran clears his throat loudly. Craig laughs outright, unashamed and absolutely coked out of his mind.
“Okay, first of all, I don’t catch, and second, stop fondling Pope, it’s weird.” Essie grins at Pope, close enough to his face to smell the weed and beer on his breath. He grins back, but whether it’s on purpose or not, she doesn’t know. She turns back to Deran, who is currently turning a hilarious shade of red.
“Honey, it ain't weird if he’s this handsome, and don’ act like you ain’t bottomed before,” she tells him, voice low.
He vehemently denies this until Craig lifts him up in a fireman’s hold and they both end up in the pool, complete with cheers and shouts from the other partygoers around them. She turns back to Pope and leans in so that when she speaks, her lips drag against his ear.
“Don’t worry, Pope. This ain’t weird, an’ I don’t wanna fuck Deran.” His body goes from relaxed to rigid in a split second. “Th’ only Cody I wanna fuck is you,” she whispers into his ear. She can feel his cock start to swell beneath her, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll agree.
He closes his eyes for a long moment but then shakes his head and lifts her off of his lap, turning and sitting her gently back in the chair without him, or his cock, under her.
“You’re just high. We’re–we’re both high. I–,” he stumbles over his words. “I'm gonna go to bed.” He doesn’t look at her again, just hightails it inside and disappears down the hallway.
Essie sits in that chair for a few more minutes before noticing that J is still sitting to her right sipping a beer and watching her.
“Child,” she starts, “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’, but whatever it is, no.” She gets up and yawns, mouth stretching open until her jaw pops, and starts into the house. Her high is fading into something more sleepy, so she heads toward the door, intending to steal Deran’s bed. Right before she reaches for the door handle, though, she turns back to J.
“Anger an’ hurt don’ get better when you’re alone, baby,” and then she leaves him there, sitting at an empty table and trying to find his blank expression once more. (She was slurring a bit and her accent was heavier, but J understands what she’s saying.
He just doesn’t know what to do with it.)
Essie flops down on Deran’s bed and is almost asleep when she hears the faintest gasp followed by a groan and a sigh on the other side of the wall. Pope’s room. She smiles as she drifts off, dreaming of dark, hazel eyes and that intensity that never fails to make her wet.
A few weeks go by for Essie without seeing the Codys, assuming that they’re busy with whatever it is they do.
Essie might not be shy, but she’s also not stupid. She can get into enough trouble on her own.
Which is why, when Craig pulls into her lot with a car she’s never seen him drive before and an expression that's flitting between nervous and pleading, she knows enough to pull him into her office and close the door.
“Why are you pissed? I haven’t even said anything yet!” he protests, but she slaps a hand over his mouth and glares until he stops trying to talk.
“Tell me, Craig, is ‘at car out there hot?” she spits at him, pointing with her free hand. This business, her business, is completely legitimate. Any work she does on her own cars is done at a warehouse owned by someone else’s name, with security around it. Her race winnings sit in several boltholes around southern California, only used for things she can pay for in cash.
She doesn’t launder money through her business, and she genuinely enjoys working on cars, so there’s no need to mix business and business.
“Look, Pete’s guy shut us out after Pope–,” she holds her hand up and he, intelligently, stops talking.
“I don’ wanna know anythin’ about this. If’n you pull me into somethin’ stupid, I will lose your numbers, stop comin’ ‘round, and never fix any of y’alls cars again,” she hisses.
“Es, I’m s–wait. If’n?” Craig asks.
“Craig Cody, I swear on my mama’s fuckin' grave,” she starts, but Craig waves his hands in something related to an apology. Maybe.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, but we’re in a bit of a bind here and could use some help. We’ll owe you.” Essie sighs.
A favor owed her would be nice, she supposes.
“I keep my business legit, Craig.” She moves around the desk and scribbles down the address to her warehouse. “Bring it there tonight,” she hands him the scrap of paper. “If you’re followed or anythin’ blows back on me, you can say goodbye t’your dick.” She stares him down until he nods, but then he gets a glint in his eye.
‘Should I have Pope bring it–,” he starts, but she moves around her desk to come after him and he goes for the door.
“Get th’fuck outta here,” she seethes. He does.
She doesn’t admit out loud that she would like to see the oldest Cody brother.
That night, Essie’s working on her newest acquisition, a Nissan GT-R, when Craig and Pope pull in outside her warehouse, setting off her proximity sensors. Craig’s driving the car that he’d come by the shop with earlier that day, and Pope is following him in his own car.
She opens the garage door and waves them in, closing it behind them. Craig climbs out of the car, which is fine but probably about two sizes too small for him, and looks around at the warehouse, whistling as he takes it all in.
Her cars are all arranged perfectly in a large, open area near the main garage door, and behind it, with its own garage door, is the workshop area, outfitted with everything she could ever need to work on her four-wheeled babies.
“You got all this from racing?” Craig asks as Pope comes to stand next to him, also looking around the space, but with an unreadable expression.
“Na, jus’ honest, blue-collar work’s all,” she replies, tone innocent, but she’s smirking. They stand there for a few seconds before Essie puts her hands out in front of her and gestures at the car behind Craig. “So?”
“Right, so we did th–,” he starts but she puts up a hand to cut him off like she did in her office.
“You ain’t got the good sense god gave a fuckin' rock,” she tells him, rolling her eyes.
“I ain’t, what?” he starts to ask but then shakes his head. Pope’s lips curl into a barely-there grin. “Nevermind, I got it, no details.”
“Good man, now what do y’uns need done? A breakdown?” she prompts, walking over to the car and looking it over. It’s nothing terribly special as is, an old Camaro that hasn’t seen nearly the amount of love and attention it’s needed over the past couple decades.
“Yeah,” Craig nods, words clipped in case he says too much again, “that’s it.”
She clicks her tongue and looks back up at him. “Alright. I can do that.” Pope steps forward and catches her eye.
“We’ll pay you,” he offers, looking over at Craig with irritation. “No, Craig will pay you since it’s him that fucked up,” he adds.
“Nuh-uh, boys. Craig offered me a favor’n return.” She winks at Pope, who looks down but smiles at the floor all the same.
“What is it you want?” Craig questions, eyebrows raised and head tilted flirtatiously, but only in jest.
“You said you’d owe me, baby,” she reminds him, and Pope’s head jerks up, looking at Craig, irritation back in his face.
“You really are dumber than a rock,” he informs Craig.
Essie just grins and waves them out.
“I’ll text y'all when it’s done, boys,” she tells them as they hop in Pope’s car.
(Pope watches his phone closely the entire next day just in case she texts him instead of Craig. When she does, “👍🏼😘,” he smiles the rest of the night.)
Essie had ended up in the Codys’ social circle shockingly fast. She wasn't shy, and she definitely wasn't afraid of much. Her accent was different from any other that Pope had ever heard, and he found himself wanting to hear it every day. Pope had noticed and enjoyed the increasing frequency in which she was at the house. She was vibrant and quick to tease, but none of it ever felt malicious.
Pope had never met anyone like her before, and he was instantly enamored. Which meant that every single thing anyone had ever said about him made it difficult for him to just talk to her. To be present. She seemed to like him when he managed to just be himself, though–including his oddities, his weirdness.
He noticed things that weren't necessarily important in the grand scheme, but they meant something to him. The way she would default to grabbing a glass and drinking tap water instead of bottled or filtered. (He installed a filter for their tap.) He saw the way that she moved, a strange mixture of assuredness and grace, never stepping somewhere unintended. He watched the way she drove when they'd head to the beach, her body relaxed, but her driving quick and precise. She shifted gears like the car was an extension of her body.
Her vernacular is full of phrases that he’s never heard, but he wants to collect all of them. He wants to know where she got them from, to know where she's from, to know all of her. She's on his mind to some degree constantly, even on jobs. He finds a necklace that he’d like to see on her when they hit a jewelry store. He sees a seashell on a shelf at an art collector’s place that perfectly matches the shade of her lips.
He also notices her bad habits, like how her daily cigarette count climbs and climbs with the terrible influences of Craig and Deran.
He decides that he doesn't like that. He likes her smile and her laugh and her jokes and her choices in swimsuits. He likes how her skin tans easily instead of burning, as if the UV rays don't want to hurt her.
He doesn't want to hurt her either. He wants to make sure nothing ever hurts her.
He doesn't like that his brothers are being a bad influence.
It's just Essie and Pope tonight, sitting next to the pool and gazing up at the sky. She'd called him earlier and asked him, "Jeet yet?" which apparently meant, "Did you eat yet?"
So, she came by with tacos, and he'd listened to her stories from back home as they ate. She never mentioned specifics, but it was easy to parse that it was somewhere in Appalachia from her accent and descriptions.
She was flirty with him in a way that she wasn't with anyone else. Sure, she could be crass and excelled in giving his brothers shit, but for him, she made it clear that she, at the very least, wanted to fuck him.
She had mentioned offhandedly during dinner how she missed seeing the stars since there’s so much light pollution here, so he had simply turned off the lights in the backyard so the two of them could gaze upward and pretend that the few stars they were able to see were worth it.
They’re both a little buzzed, but just enough to be calm. Comfortable. Then Pope hears the flick of the lighter, sees the glow of the cherry from his periphery, and looks over, trying to figure out if he should say something.
Essie has a cigarette held lightly between her index and middle fingers. Pope watches the smoke curl lazily out of her mouth, and raises his head as it keeps rising into the sky.
“You should quit smoking,” he remarks, breaking the easy silence they'd lapsed into. “It's bad for you.”
Essie slides her eyes over toward him in the lounger next to her.
“Doesn' everyone in your life smoke?” she shoots back with a scoff. Pope adores how she pronounces her vowels. Like she has all the time in the world to get her meaning across.
“Yeah, they shouldn't either, but they're idiots.” She looks down thoughtfully, like she's actually listening to him. He's noticed that her habit of picking up a pack went from once every couple weeks to one every other day or so.
“Hmm,” she considers, but she doesn't speak her thoughts out loud just yet. He lets the moment breathe for a bit while she finishes her smoke.
(It wasn't something Essie meant to pick up. She’d always had an oral fixation, and smoking casually at a party or outside of a bar with some friends was relaxing. It gave her something to do with her hands, while also feeding her need to have something between her lips.
She almost always had something in her mouth. Gum, a sucker, the tip of her fingernail, a pen cap–it didn't happen with intent behind it. It was just how she operated. So when she was around the Codys, namely Craig and Deran, cigarettes just became another thing she could hold in her mouth regularly.)
“So?” he asks, once she's stubbed it out in the tray next to her chair.
“I'll give it a shot, but I got an addictive personality’n an oral fixation, so I don't know how successful I'll be.” Pope knows excuses, so he doesn't pull any punches. She certainly never has.
“You can try the gum or patches or candy or fuckin’ whatever, just knock it off.”
Her still buzzed brain must not see any issue with her mouth allowing, “Maybe if I could keep your dick in my mouth as much as I wanted, I could stop,” to slip past her lips.
Pope goes still next to her and absolutely does not look over at her eyes. He's been with women, he's cared for them. But, he's never done anything like he's sure Essie wants to do. What would she think? What if he embarrasses himself? What if he's bad?
If he lets her in, where will she end up?
“You're drunk, you don't know what you're saying,” he finally grinds out, still not looking over.
“Just means I got lower inhibitions, m’not more likely to lie.” He can tell from the sound of her voice that she's still looking at him. He turns his head slowly and takes her in.
She's wearing a dark blue, sheer cover up over a miniscule white bikini, and he can still see all of the scars and freckles and marks he's catalogued over the last several months. Her eyes are heavily lidded with a mixture of alcohol and lust. He can see the tiniest speck of light reflected in each one from the streetlight on the other side of the fence.
He chances a glance downward, just for a fraction of a second, and her nipples are hard, pressing clearly through the fabric of her bikini top. When he flicks his eyes back up, her smirk tells him that she noticed. His attention freezes on her lips, the way they curve, how plush they are, what they'd feel like on his own, what they'd feel like on his co–
No. No, no, no. He looks down at the concrete instead, breathing heavily and resisting the urge to get up and go inside.
A hand, callused and scarred, enters his vision slowly but with intention. She grasps his chin and pulls lightly, guiding his face upward toward hers.
When their eyes lock, Pope knows he's fucked. She's smiling, but not in jest or mockingly. She's smiling sweetly and then her hand is sliding up his jaw to his cheek. The arm of his chair is digging into his ribs, and he's leaning a little precariously, but absolutely none of that matters when her lips press against his, bold and soft and fucking perfect.
She hums a little when he presses forward and opens his mouth for her tongue, and the way she completely overtakes his brain should be impossible.
He loved and was obsessed with Cath. He wanted Amy and her forgiveness.
He's completely, irreversibly infatuated with Essie Morgan. He’s obsessed in the way he was with Cath, but this time is different. There aren’t any adulterous considerations, no reasons to be ashamed or hide. No anger. Essie is different, and she seems to want him too.
When Essie pulls back from him, panting and pupils blown wide, he leans forward and follows her for just a second before opening his eyes and watching as she comes over to his chair and straddles him.
She puts her hands on his cheeks and looks so, so satisfied as she bends down and kisses him again. Only this time, she's also pressing herself down against his jeans, right over his cock, and every bit of blood in his body rushes south so quickly that his brain ceases any thought that isn't about her.
“Is this okay?” she whispers, pulling away for a split second, and he can only nod. Words are beyond him at this moment in time.
He can feel her nipples as she presses her chest to his, and he's groaning into her mouth when she moves back in to attack his lips with her own, unable to keep his desperation at bay.
She answers him in kind when she grinds harshly against his clothed cock, and after a weighted pause between them, they start grinding against each other in tandem.
She keeps grinding, and Pope is rolling his hips upward and gripping her waist, cupping the back of her head, pulling her closer to him, anything he can do to keep feeling her.
She whispers into his ear, “Y’gonna come for me, darlin’?” And he is, he definitely is. Just as he starts to spill into his pants, she presses down and breathes out, “‘at’s it, honey, come with me,” and then she's throwing her head back and moaning straight at the sky, like she's telling the stars that they should be jealous.
(Neither one of them notices when Craig and Deran open the gate and freeze.)
“Oh, what the fuck?” he hears Craig from behind her, and he is so gone in the moment that he doesn't even say anything. He follows the bead of sweat down Essie’s neck with his tongue and he breathes and he thinks he might die from happiness.
“Fuck off, boys. We're busy,” Essie throws over her shoulder, and, thankfully, they actually do.
Once the Scout has left the driveway and the only sounds around them are the rustle of leaves in the trees and the soft lapping of the pool, Essie tucks herself under his arm and sighs happily.
“Alright. If’n you help me with my little oral fixation problem, I’ll try to stop smokin’,” she drawls, a smile in her voice.
“I'll do anything for you,” Pope murmurs softly, without an ounce of humor in his voice.
A/N: I have about 30k words of this written at this point, so I hope to have more out soon. Chapter two will have a lot more smut. 😈 Let me know if you liked it!
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, p in v, praise kink / soft dom dynamics, size kink, pet names (baby, good girl, perfect girl, etc), dacryphilia
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
Jack keeps you wrapped in cotton, even while he’s buried to the hilt.
One broad palm stays splayed between your shoulder blades, a promise that he has you, always has you, while the other wanders, taming fly-aways behind your ear, thumb sweeping the tears that shimmer there before they can cool.
“Easy, angel,” he murmurs, voice steeped in amber nectar. “I know she’s full. Just breathe for me.”
You do your best, but every lungful drags you further down his length, your body desperate for the heavy fill it’s already trembling to accommodate. A needy whimper slips out, fists knotting the sheets, and he soothes you with a gentle kiss against your smile line.
“That’s it,” he praises, hips rocking in a rich, molasses-slow circle that lets you savor every thick inch. “Such a good girl, taking it all — see how beautifully you fit me?”
Tiny wildfires flower through you everywhere at once, heating your cheeks, spilling down your throat, settling low in your belly where desire winds itself tight and shining.
Embarrassment flickers its wings right alongside it, because he’s cooing at you the same way he coaxes patients through vaccinations: gentle, forbearing, inexorable.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, like there exists a universe where you would ask him to stop.
His hand glides the length of your back, fingers pausing in the dip where your spine meets sacrum.
Too much is exactly how you’d describe the feeling of his cock dragging across that spot that makes your vision strobe starbusting colors, but the tenderness in his voice knots something unsteady in your body.
You manage a breathy, “please, don’t stop.”
A contented rumble answers you, and he plants a feather-light kiss on your forehead, right where he’d lay cool fingers to check your temperature.
He resumes that same rhythm. Slow drive in, lingering grind, languid pull out that leaves you aching for the return. The headboard knocks a soft counterpoint, each tap punctuated by his gentle commentary.
“Doing so well,” he croons when your elbows buckle, gathering you up with one flush tug to his chest. “Hold on to me, there you go, honey.”
Jack angles your leg higher, opening you wider for him, and the change steals air from your lungs in one shattered sound.
“Shh,” he hushes, half-smile curving, proud and adoring all at once. “I know. Feels big, doesn’t it? Let me make it better.”
His fingers dip to your clit, and your gasp dissolves into his name. “Jack — s’good.”
The room narrows to the glide of his thumb and the steady ballast of his body.
He kisses the salt at your hairline, murmuring, “Same here, baby. My perfect girl. Let me handle the rest, yeah?”
MARIA NOTE if being babied this hard during sex is wrong, i refuse to be right <3
free use is kind of a funny kink bc it relies on the idea that everybody wants to touch you and have sex with you but what if they don't. what if you tell everybody at the party you're free use but they all ignore you and mind their own business
