[notfeel]

#puncia’s usfw sideblog.　Strictly 18+.　Untagged usfw discussion, imagery, and writing inbound.　No plotting or ships required for engagement on this blog.　Leopard is bisexual.

[notfeel]

@brokenfist　Threesome from hell drabble for you. . .

Leopard does not suggest intervention,　no matter how delicate:　Niran parades around bleary-eyed dog,　and she trails behind,　stolidly shepherding.　(It’s fine,　she thinks,　she knows,　that Niran has heretofore shown himself capable of looking after himself,　that nothing will go awry should she cease to shadow the duo in their meandering,　wherever Niran will smugly and demeaningly drag Noname to.　Not protection,　no,　never something so noble.　Selfless attack dog,　deprived of the self.)　It only stands to reason,　then,　that when Niran prattles his audacious whims and wants,　Leopard dutifully obliges.　

Back again,　in the tender and lilied adornments of a fancy hotel room　⸻　she almost figures Niran malicious enough to willfully seek out a lesser quality to torment Noname with,　but Leopard knows better than to make baseless assumptions,　still not privy to the vastest extent of humanity’s cruelty　⸻　where she has disrobed just as life’s least favorite as.　Nudity is fine.　Nudity is frank.　

Passive watcher keenly observes as Noname is made to lay back against the mattress,　bared chest facing colossal ceiling,　wrists fettered together with scratchy coconut rope.　There it is,　cruel,　but it’s difficult to imagine that he could continue existing without pain bestowed onto him.　Some people are just made to suffer.　That is the way the world is,　in blinding objectivity.　Niran meanwhile prepares himself,　hoisting harness up over his thighs:　she doesn’t make a habit of staring,　but stare she does,　anticipatory flit of eyes to hefty toy cock suspended in place.　The procured bottle of lube goes neglected,　abandoned on tabletop surface.

She’s told,　then,　to sit on Noname’s face,　smother out that fucker’s air;　expression unwavering,　she crawls onto the bed,　settling just above his face and grinding her cunt down.　Sheepish tongue laves at her folds,　and Leopard swallows once,　summoning her indifference.　Niran saunters nearer,　voracious exploiter he is,　and he toughly takes hold of Noname’s thighs to force his legs apart,　spread like a filthy magazine.　No warning comes before he rocks cockhead inside his prey’s tight hole,　Noname’s weeping length pitifully neglected.　She could help him out.　She could.　But a tool is not to defy its orders,　not intended to harbor little slices of ingenuity,　and a tool is certainly not to fiddle with flimsy kindnesses.　Leopard does not do mercy,　no,　least of all when it makes no difference to her whether downtrodden dog finds release or not.　That is Niran’s jurisdiction,　and she need not interfere.　Aggressive pace quickens,　coaxing muffled vocalizations from Noname that vibrate freely at Leopard’s core.

Dominating eyes catch one another,　and Niran’s free hand stalks in,　fingers enclosing around her neck,　palm stiff against throat.　He squeezes,　maintaining solid grip while Leopard’s face gradually illuminates crimson,　one choked sob preceding the tears welling in her eyes,　shining like gemstones.　With no regard for the disposable below,　her hips shift involuntarily,　rolling backwards in fluid motion to engulf his face until Niran finally,　finally relents.　Panting,　Leopard stumbles forward onto open hands,　eyes forced shut in hapless pursuit of catching her breath,　cheeks saturated with where the tears had drooled downward.　

[damnd-feels]

Surrendering just as much as you did, in all ways you thought you’d never, physically bare, emotionally bare. Indulged in her moans and the way she held on to you as if you were going to disappear, tightly and claiming you. You hadn’t seen her this way, in the very least you could bring out lighter and softer gasps which you adored just as much. No this was something else, all real but this confirmed likewise feelings that ruminated within you for weeks. The friction built and you yourself couldn't think, matching hers— you knew the moves, knew how to always make use of the time you had with her but you wanted to stay longer, in this for longer, have her hold you this longer just much as you attached yourself to her. Mind narrowing down to the pressure of your gut. God she held bend as shaky breath able to speak, you couldn’t help smile from her plea. “Never—“ Even if this was just from her reactiveness (But you knew she meant it. She’d never been this vocal, and you knew you finally had her.)

choked groan, his hips bucked— your pace grew frantic and desperate rush of heat compelling inside you— this need to seal the promise and let it finish inside her, recklessly thinking. You were both too in it and you wanted that promise to be to true after this. At the same time so eagerly wanting more, as if you hadn’t fucked so much already —no you want her and only her. To provide her with this pleasure for as long as you can and free her in this way. Fuck anything that tries to come your way at this point. You have nothing going for you, no one that needs you or care of your existence. she did. In this way and maybe more— you didn’t know happiness (or could even remember how it felt) but she was on your mind even apart and yo could feel the lightness that comes with it, You’re losing your mind.

Pace grew frantic and fingers dug on her hips as face buried in to her neck likewise, connecting like a puzzle piece —releasing a low moan against her skin, hips bucking hard once more until tension snap instantly, both lasting long enough for each other though with heightened emotions you knew you would reach yours, holding her close as heavy hot rush spilling into her as your body pulsed with an overwhelming release. You wanted to see her, to lock gaze into her again. Lips finding hers in a ragged gasp, large hand pulling her close while you finally turn her seamlessly, to sit on top of you and promise still stands as you embrace her closely— no gap whatsoever, Emotions so high it lingers as you grind against her, Fuck it– slipping in even as you climaxed just to be inside her but slow thrusts while you occupy her with a deep passionate kiss, Tongue in unison with hers and caressing her back,

[notfeel]

This will mean something,　come tomorrow,　once the effulgence of dawn radiated onto you both and provided its immaculate,　divine clarity.　This isn’t the kind of thing you can just run away from,　whisk yourself back to the Tundra to freeze out the world and,　most importantly,　him.　Life just doesn’t work that way.　No,　tomorrow will come and things will have changed between the two of you,　a covert deepening to your relationship even beyond the parameters of a definition.　Whatever this is uniting you,　you are bound by it for the foreseeable future,　loathsome cache of attachment.　It’s fine.　If it will be anyone,　it needs to be Sam.　He needs you like you maybe,　just maybe,　teeny little inclination of want,　need him.　Beyond your body,　his forcible objective has been familiarizing himself with your soul,　even to every corner shrouded in murk.　The darkest parts,　the worst parts,　the parts that died inside of you since you were old enough to walk at those goddamn facilities.　Sam wants it all and thinks little of it.　You aren’t sure what’s wrong with him.

Filthy movie perfect:　him spilling into you,　your joined gazes enmeshing into the tight lock of your lips together,　a completely loving embrace.　You aren’t sure what’s wrong with you.　You’d think it a nice moment to simply revel in,　but Sam’s maneuvering your slender build before you know it,　rolling you onto his lap.　It’s a pleasant vantage point,　too.　Fingers sweep through disheveled crop of blonde,　tucking it away from your face,　a coy simper paints your lips as he grinds up into you;　your teeth rake into your bottom slip as he slips back in,　stuffing his seed deeper into you.　He really can’t get enough of you,　can he?　You harness untapped potential harvested straight from his adoration,　a control like no other you could exert over him if your situation ever grew dire,　if you ever needed an easy out.　But why would you?　Seriously,　why would you?　What has that stupid organization ever done for you besides entirely strip you of your identity,　forming you into a tool of their manipulation?　Hunger stirs in the bottom of your stomach,　predator stalking toward its newest victim.　In due time,　perhaps it will all make sense.

Forearms balance delicately on his shoulders,　fingers interlaced with locked wrists at the back of his neck.　❛❛  You’ll wear yourself out,  ❜❜　you warn,　though you’re certain he can handle himself,　moderate that desperate exertion languidly rocking up into you.　With his length nestled securely inside you,　you figure you could stay like this all night,　comfortable,　safe.　A teasing roll of your hips follows suit,　brow quirking upward in coquettish taunt.　❛❛  My name is Leopard.　I want to hear you say it.  ❜❜　It’s funny,　almost,　when one focuses upon it,　reasons with the simply query of how he can claim to love the woman he doesn’t even know the real name of.

[damnd-feels]

All the nights shared in her space leading up to this, not that you’d never been aware that you had been the one following after her, Really on other occasions you’d have her at yours but even then it was to keep her away from your shitty environment. She probably wouldn’t care otherwise, but you’d want her away from anything that may even remotely affect her from all the assholes that had eyes on you, that knew where you lived, (really, also embarrassed of even bringing her over to the small studio you call home when it was just merely a place to sleep in. which you rarely ever did). it was either a motel but somehow you got lucky . . . somehow her letting you in her space was something you didn’t take for granted.

So you had always returned the company, Until really it was more than company. It’s rarely been even anything since you had been intimately romantic. Really had no memory ever of being so emotionally invested ever (Sure through sex, that it began through sex . . . so did we finally cross the line?) You’ve known the answer for weeks now and you always shoved it down because of cowardness, And you always ran off if a single drop of feeling shows— never had anyone care enough to even be bothered bringing it up with you, or calling you on it. no it was always just sex. Just fun. But she cared. Never verbally said it, made you aware of it but it was enough to get a reaction from her and you just regret it all. (But this is real, And you wanted the fantasy to be. To have her this way just the two of you).

To protect her, Be someone she relies on . . . Be someone she can run to, someone to call on the days or nights she needed the company, you wanted to be the one to fill that place, that role? (God you sound like a teenage boy. But really could it be that bad?) It should’ve been over the first few nights right? Everyone got tired of you, That’s how it is. Used for either the pleasure of sex or an exchange of debts, Really a distraction always and never a commitment. — The way she’s holding you right now made you feel that. To be wanted, Needed. Fuck she just, was perfect in every way, you fit perfectly, in her and emotionally, you really didn’t know how but you knew. Was this really it? Love did drive people insane (and you can’t deny you love it.) When did you feel anything else that wasn’t rage or anger, always pretended that, this was a distraction for all that, and sure it was to release it. But you knew all too well it was more than it.

Letting go of her hand to reach for her face now as she holds on to you closer, So you mirror the same— still keeping your pace and your close but enough to keep prolonging it longer, Really her whimpers- her legs giving out just made you insatiably more determined to truly push her past her limits. Delectable. LUST AND LOVE. Confessional. Cupping her cheek and heavy breathing against her cheek, “I know baby, I know—“ Turning her chin slightly to you so you reach her lips, Lovingly, Deeply and at the same momentum roughing into her deeper. “I love you so much.”

[notfeel]

[Don’t love me.　Don’t do that to yourself.]

It just doesn’t work.　You don’t have the heart to warn him　⸻　you don’t have one at all.　And,　operating against the crux of your training,　every thankless hour spent strapped to a chair on a heavy dose of dissociative agent,　shocking away every inclination of emotion that levels upon your profile,　you just don’t want to warn him.　You want him to stay,　for better or for worse.　You get nothing in this life,　and while you’ve relatively come to terms with this,　embraced it through swallowing past a pervasive lump in your throat and your lips stretched thin into neutrality,　you want this.　You want him.　It’s dreadful.　Uncertain of what to do with it,　what to make of uncomfortable suppuration throughout your being,　you hold Sam a little tighter,　clinging to him as if it could actually prevent you from ever being separated from one another.　It cannot be helped.

To distract from whatever exactly deigns to flow from your tear ducts,　you direct your attention to nursing at his neck,　dotting the flesh with a galaxy of fresh markings,　one little star-kiss for each time you’ve lost yourself with him.　The tightness straight across your chest is indeterminate,　partially from your emotional overwhelm,　partially from the physical stimulation,　partially from your chests flush against one another,　wholly bared,　close as two people could possibly be.　With impassioned keening,　wrinkles fraying the edges of your face with how tense your expression has morphed,　you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold yourself back.

Which　⸻　come on,　really.　You’re not the showy type.　Those you fuck are lucky to get significant reaction from you at all,　let alone the shrill,　orgasmic quality of a starlet’s climax,　frenetically clawing at one’s back because you’ve somehow lost complete control of your senses.　Another one of your downfalls,　something you should be above,　something to place you legions ahead of your peers in constant competition that does not exist.　Today is the day you tap out from so-called competition,　freed of inhibitions as lust sparks most poignant in your gut.　A whimper,　then,　delicate and sweet,　as your hips stutter beneath him,　legs pressing firm to tether Sam to you.

When he speaks,　you…　fuck it,　maybe you’re dying,　come to think of it.　This is something entirely unique,　something you have never before experienced in its extremity.　He holds you close,　just as you hold him,　and you feel the love reverberate all through you,　a pulsing sensation that goes on continuously.　It’s too much.　Too,　too much.　Losing composure debases you entirely,　strips you rawer than the nudity you unify with.　The burning,　the throbbing,　it’s all just too,　too much,　and it isn’t long before you’re holding back moans in your aching,　needy throat,　writhing and arching from below,　hips jerking erratically while reckless pace continues on.　

❛❛  Don’t ever leave me.  ❜❜　Then,　figuring it too sugary-sweet,　something to rot teeth straight through to the gums,　you adoringly muse,　❛❛  No one fucks me like you do.  ❜❜　As if this is what it is all about.　You cling to him,　still,　sensitive from the very peak of your pleasure.　

[damnd-feels]

Your pacing soft again, really this whole provoked mess was emotionally pulling you back and forth. Greedy to hear words that fell of her mouth now stiff at repeat— wrong move again like an argumentative respond on her end and making you feel like you failed, you had her already and still, it was always element of surprise or challenge with her. You should’ve known to follow her request, had gone too cocky in the moment to think you had her under, or maybe it was you also losing it. Still the weak one over stupid words. great, she didn’t mean it. or did she and she’s wanting you to respond back? ( fuck. you’re always messing up sam what’s happening to you. ) already missing the harmonies of moans she already vocalised— re-igniting it again,

maybe just fuck her the way you always have. You’re letting your feelings get the best of you, really this was the first time you had let feelings get in the way in the manner. (Well since the previous night I were passion lost the both of you from that kiss.) why can’t it be like that again? Didn’t think jealousy would crack you this bad and now you’re just as irritated as her, and it’s your fault. fuck. Infuriated you more because you knew her rhythms well, knew the cues and you refusing one meant consequence. You were the dominant one but she always had the say, you remember that. Really you can’t do anything now but make up for it (again you fool.)

Focus sam. Get her where she usually loves, the usual. Love bites across her back, mark them again. Remembering your routine so that you could please her more, fuck your feelings, just do it. —fastened pace again just as it was earlier, Left hand cupping her breasts while wrapped around it, holding onto her close so that you were close enough to bite unmarked shoulders, while the other at her hip, lowering to mattress so that you can steady her,

Fine, maybe you give back the roughness again WITH LOVE, Whatever. maybe it is both. maybe you fuck her rough and make love. Body over her perfectly aligned to pound into her, Hard. and hand that was at her breast now reaching for her hand to spread out as her own own body press down to the sheets, intertwining digits with hers, at the same time trapping it, Trapping her, Other hand holding her waist still to keep her steady as you speed into her again, Biting just behind her neck, and ear— letting her hair your own heavy breaths, Tightening intertwined grip with hers for every thrust you promise with a rough slap twice at what he can reach of her exposed .

“I-“ hesitates for a second, biting just below her ear to mark upon drop of words, “I love you.”

[notfeel]

He feels good.　He does.　He feels really good,　meant to stretch you out inside,　shape you around his heft.　You need to stop pretending like this means to mean anything else,　that you two are destined for a life beyond that of semi-to-regular rough fucking;　it’s exactly this that makes you recall how you loathe the tenderness,　the soft facets of life,　the ooey-gooey,　mushy bullshit that’s made to sell Hallmark movies and stale chocolates cast in a heart-shaped mold.　You’re okay with just the fucking.　Really,　you are.　And maybe that tends to include the way that he holds you in his arms afterwards,　brushes sweat-slick hair off your forehead and kisses you,　right there on the flushed pane of skin.　Or how you two shower afterwards,　and you feel some pull of intrigue in your ability to show off your fancy,　expensive shower.　They’re far nicer than the ones you’d use at the facility,　that’s for fucking sure.　You’ve basically never seen anything nicer in your life,　down to the golden-tinted embellishments of the faucet and the black marble tiling on the wall.　And you share it with him.　You want to be sharing it with him.　Isn’t that just fucking embarrassing?

Hands palm at your tits,　and your jaw clenches hard,　teeth clamping to inhibit every feeling you have spent a lifetime repressing,　forcing down,　licking the flames to be better than:　it’s just so nice.　You want his mouth and lips and teeth and tongue all over your body,　claiming you as his because all you want is to belong to somebody.　You don’t know how to be yourself　⸻　there is only a shadowed abstraction every time you look in the mirror,　staring back to you,　apathetic and cruel.　There is no real Leopard so much as there is shroud of obedience,　blind loyalty to those most adept at wielding you.　It could be Sam,　you wager.　It could be Sam.　While uncertain if you could ever fully trust him,　he has come much further than any attempting similar footpath.　Fighting for you for reasons you cannot ascertain.　Probably because he’s stupid.　Needs something to fight for to bolster his own ego.　Nobody has ever fought for you before,　not like this.　He doesn’t even have a fucking obligation to.　What a wretched pawn he is.

While trite,　you somehow come to appreciate how he holds your hand.　Like a lover.　His quickening pace,　full of desperate and needy thrusts,　is always welcome,　breathing growing more laborious as he rails you.　He’s good.　You know he’s good.　Sam knows the exact patterns to follow,　where to touch you that feels best,　how to completely and utterly make love to you,　maddeningly,　infuriatingly.　Your free hand wraps around,　clinging to him needily,　wanting to…　to…　fuck it,　to just hold him,　you suppose.　To hold him close so he can’t leave you.　With parted legs quivering,　heat coiling tight in your core as your draw nearer and nearer to the brink.　The full symphony of his breathing against your ear certainly does little to help,　either,　nudging you further to where you squeeze your eyes shut in attempts of staving it off,　prolonging it just a little longer—

You don’t know.　You just don’t know.　It probably wasn’t a teardrop,　that wetness now saturating a trail from your eye,　along your cheek,　and down your chin;　it’s hot,　the entanglement of your limbs together,　sweat beading against pale skin,　nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck,　hiding away.　Another follows,　soaring down the same avenue as the first,　and you hold him a little tighter,　clinging to this dream of security for as long as you can.　You love him,　too.

[damnd-feels]

Jealousy is truly a disease, One that will always be followed with truth serum. You like her, You hate that you like her. You hate that you thought of her every time there was void and absence on your life, how it drove you to miss her touch, or touching her. So in denial you sought to shake it off onto someone else and now you pay the consequence— so so so intensely indulged by her existence, How was it that you simply held tension, a connection bound by violence now just fallen . . . be it love truly, you don’t want it to end. you’re admitting it to yourself now, You want this with her for as long as she lets you, that the universe or whatever god that sent her lets you.

“Fu—God, you’re perfect” Burying close to her ear, allow grunt as length deepens into her, every motion just perfectly hitting her melodies right. You never want it to end ever, memorised so much of her pleasure points well enough to know how to trap her just to prolong their time together, what more when tonight meant reclaiming his place, claiming the want to be hers—this particularly made you hungry for more, To hear your name be repeated as you thrust hard was an honour. she’s never called your name out this way before— lustful, approving and carefree. You’ve got her now, You were doing something right. (It made you feel good to provide this pleasure for her, wanting that label to be hers and hers only so bad now. boyfriend sounded so childish like two college kids but you wanted to be. and not just a sex partner or benefits.)

then— The L word. You heard it. Of course you heard it, This was your goal in the first place, to make her release more than she ever has. Unexpectedly did not expect that come from her. Unprovoked, unplanned and you knew it was genuine from her followed whimpers and losing her gaze to your pleasure. Jealousy bringing out the truth in you in the way you were fucking into her this time while her release revealed hers. A reconciliation? maybe. Either way you heard it, and there’s a small smile that comes through.

You reject her request not because you didn’t want to, but more that you were scared she’d snap out of it or realised she had said it. Badly wanting to say it back but you also knew her too well, Could break this when you’re finally letting her be free. Loose canon, much like how you can truly show her more. You loved seeing her free, Didn’t want to redden that beautiful face and she’s finally at a high to even catch your gaze so you keep the pace going—

It was merely seconds of being out of her, you guide her to turn, wasn’t rough but hard enough to slide length back into her, and hovering over to her while hand wrapped gently around her neck, “You love me?” whispering at her ear as you find your pacing back again into her— in, out, in— it was easier this way to ask her to say it again. she couldn’t see your eyes anymore and you can fuck her harder the more she says it. “Say it again” tease. An absolute tease, But you reward her anyway, you just want to hear her say your name again— rid of anyone ever again and just you. free hand reaching for her clit to add more, Stimulate her even more as you thrust steadily, which each push, an up on speed, make her question which was giving her the most pleasure,

[notfeel]

The words are hollow,　no matter how you try and force fondness from them:　perfect by design,　yes,　but certainly not perfect in the way he insists.　Through time,　with training wheels severed,　you know men act a particular way,　say only what appeases the peaks of their whims.　Would he be saying this if he weren’t tucked inside of you?　Yes,　Leopard,　you are prefect for as long as you fulfill a purpose.　This is another in a rich history.　You don’t care.　You really don’t care.　Your bodies,　still,　move in immaculate harmony,　unified as he bucks firm into you and you write beneath him in accordance.　Lips sealed,　you don’t give him a response.　It’s not like you particularly want him to say those kinds of praises to you any other time,　all buttoned up,　you just…　it was a lot more complicated than that,　end of story.

When Sam doesn’t oblige your request,　you stiffen.　Maybe of annoyance,　irritation,　some slither of shame for voicing a request of own origin:　you do not sulk,　you do not whine,　you merely lay still while he fucks into you.　With the admission still lost on you,　you’re uncertain as to why.　It was no way that he hadn’t touched you before,　hurt you before　⸻　the two of you acted without restraint and that’s exactly what you loved,　going at it hard and fast,　giving you half the bruises you sported so proudly while mapping out the other half for next time,　and there was always a next time　⸻　so why?　Why won’t he listen to your one little request?　Could he not hear you?

Move you like a doll,　then.　Turn you over.　Bring face to caress the pillow and cut short that intoxicating eye contact.　You don’t care.　The vulnerability oozing from Sam’s conniving lips strikes you as odd　⸻　why would he say it now of all times?　Of all fucking times?　⸻　and brows upon your obfuscated visage narrow,　simple pout shaping on your lips.　(Those three words mean nothing to you.　They are sociocultural nullity,　lacking in that meaning the rest of humanity has injected into them.　Does he want to hear them to feel better about himself,　stake some claim of ownership over you?　It seems selfish.)

Again.　Say it again.　The blood gliding through your veins runs cold,　dream or despair or something creeping through your core.　It must have been from you.　You don’t know how it happened.　You’re normally in much greater control of your tongue.　It’s your fucking job.　And so maybe Sam is keen on this fact,　half-truth and half-life daring you to choke.　You really wish you hadn’t said it.　You aren’t sure why.　It just feels bad.　But Sam wants it,　and so the void festers,　spreads its rot.　One swallow to ready yourself,　then,　tensely,　❛❛  I love you.  ❜❜　Breath hitching,　heart racing,　trying to contend with your vile indecision;　he makes you feel so very good,　man whom you maybe do,　maybe don’t find love in your heart for.

Is it love?　Love,　where you both fuck other people to make a malicious point,　cause each other jealous harm?　Love,　that sinking numbness nestled in your chest cavity?　Love,　firing of dulled synapses in your mind,　aimed only to separate you from the rest of your kind.　Uncaring,　unloving.　Serrated edge.

Then again,　maybe it’s just a sex thing.　You’ve heard of it,　the middle-of-sex,　heat of the moment,　meaningless candor.　The I promise I don’t love you kind.　It doesn’t have to mean anything.　You don’t want it to.　You can’t love him.

(So don’t love him,　Leopard.　Besides,　he didn’t even say it back.)

[notfeel]

Sometimes a beautiful girl is an evil pervert that just finds a profound intrigue in things. Sometimes.

[brokenfist]

love is repulsion. touch is repulsion. but isn't this what you've supposed to be like? you're mimicking all of what you've seen before, playing the role as the 'good guy' as best you possibly can. women love compassion, gentle hands, slow sex and sweet words; you've seen the movies, you've had girlfriends before (briefly, for short periods of time). women didn't enjoy aggression, didn't like the feeling of violence.. and you didn't like showing people that you had that sick darkness within you. that you got off to the imagery of violence, that the brutality made you hard and dripping, coated with pre-cum and a dick that won't stop bucking against air or the fabric of your jeans.

it disgusted you; the desire that wisps within your gut every time you write about the murders in your book, how your gut churned in both pleasure and guilt, swallowing hard. or when movies showed the scenes of fierce fights and how bad you'd want to slip your hand under your pants and underwear band to touch yourself to the sounds of impact and the pained noises that would spill out, how attached you got to them and would ask for it to be replayed once more just to relish in it again, to force it in your brain so you could replay it later at night, when you finally allowed your hand to caress your cock and you came embarrassingly fast to the image of two men brawling like feral animals.

no, no. don't think about that right now. you weren't supposed to be like that. only in the darkness of your own room do you admit perverted you are.. or in the midst of an angry fight, when your body betrays you and leaks from the tip. you were normal. you were normal and you were having normal sex.. or that's what you were trying to do! then she's shifting you around, flipping you over so she can get on top, sliding your cock right back inside as you whine, teeth grazing lips as you sink back into that warmth, restraining yourself from ramming your hips upwards, bucking into her fast and hard until you came. normal. be fucking normal.

'not like you're strong enough to do damage'. your eyes narrow up at her, irritation building as you frown. you hated when people underestimated you because of your size or appearance, always assumed you were some weakling to toss around and use a personal punching bag. even in the army, when you hoped it'd finally stop, it happened and it didn't quit until you rose up in the ranks and got a sliver more respect than you had been getting. you feel her hands harsh on your face, making your lips pucker so she can kiss them and you think, for a brief moment, 'fuck it, why am i holding back at all when she's acting like this?'. you shutter out a breath, ire swirling in your chest as you force yourself out of her hold.

your hands find their way to her waist, following her flow as she moves up and down on your length, a moan spilling out every so often. then you say, " you're provoking me. " because she is and you know she is. but you're easily played, you fall right into people's hands with your actions. you think about what you want to do—have your hands wrapped around her neck, gore her open so the blood mixes with your spit and cum, force yourself within your mouth until her breathing slows and you get lost in the warmth, slam her into the wall. bile rises, you swallow it down. you can feel god's hate and disappointment from here and it makes you heavy with guilt and shame.. nonetheless, you still move your hips up, slamming into her with hard thrusts upwards, cursing.

normalcy is so out of fucking reach. why does it slip from your fingers every time you think its within your grasp? you use your strength just like she wants you to, forcing her backwards onto her back so you can hover on top. your dick slips out and then is forced right back in, the slick making it slide in with ease. " if i do what i want.. " you look at her, angry clashing with your concern, " you better not cry about it. i guess i shouldn't be surprised, you seem like the type to want it rough. tender too much for you? " your voice doesn't come out confident, no. it trembles as you reach up and force her mouth open, looking at her to assess her reaction before you spit into her mouth, closing it so you know she'll swallow. all the same, you're still thrusting inside her, faster and harder than before, your other hand playing with her clit. this is still tame. this is all still so tame yet you feel something inside you shatter, breaking into a million pieces and splintering inside of you. you fucking hate yourself.

[notfeel]

That’s better.　You hold your breath for a moment,　curious if he’d push back　⸻　plain girl means no harm,　of course,　insistence that he cannot damage you purely because you were forged as a durable thing.　Never a statement belittling his capacity,　but if he has forced himself into the shoe,　then it fits.　Maybe a push for him to let loose,　even,　stop trying to make this a picturesque entanglement,　shot tugged straight from a filthy magazine with him angled perfectly between your spread legs.　Greedy bitch that you are,　you just want to feel something;　you can sense these capabilities in Jong-woo.　Otherwise you wouldn’t know what you’re doing here.　You don’t do charity work for pent-up losers.

❛❛  Am I?  ❜❜　you ask flatly,　ignorant of the harm barring the agitation thick in his tone.　It doesn’t matter how you make him feel.　Lust,　anger,　glee,　sorrow;　they are all humanity’s deficits,　things you have put in monumental effort in surpassing.　Jong-woo is weak,　you’ve decided,　immutable from whatever physical feats he may exact onto you.　Maybe he needed some provocation to stop acting like a little fucking teddy bear.　The way you see it,　you’re doing him a favor.　This is clearly what he wants　⸻　you’ve come to fully comprehend the way people are,　the way they behave,　the things they want,　and he is nowhere near special enough to warrant an exception　⸻　and he owes it to himself to be honest.　Then again,　what do you care?　You crave a fast,　hard fuck.　That’s all.

Let him act,　then.　He can manhandle you however he pleases,　force you into this position or that one.　A loving couple’s missionary or twisting you into something deeply uncomfortable,　you can take it all.　You really don’t mind.　Rather,　you’re more caught off-guard by the remarks　⸻　do you really seem like the kind of girl to cry?　You’ve never cried,　not a day in your life;　you aren’t sure how to take his assumptions anyways,　whether or not you are the type,　exuding that energy,　depiction of the self in shameless salacity　⸻　and they bring you to stare at him blankly,　permissive in your aloof gaze.　Jong-woo should at least try to believe the words he speaks.　His trembling voice irritates you.　Never enough to react,　not when that is your sole leverage over him.

❛❛  I said it for a reason.  ❜❜　Because this is what you want.　You want to feel his rage inside you,　roughly pistoning in and out.　Your reasoning has to be good enough;　not fettered by a tear erroneously shed when he hits you hard enough for your ears to ring out in protest,　or whatever other satisfying acts of violence he may conjure up.　You do not spare a reaction even as he forces your mouth open,　blatant in what will follow.　When he spits　(and forces it shut,　as if you needed the insinuation to follow through),　you do him a kindness and loudly swallow it down,　exaggeration specifically for his sake.　It doesn’t bother you.　You’ve endured much worse without flinching.　It will take a lot more than this to make you hurt.

All the same,　you like that he’s trying.　You have no intentions of bestowing coveted reaction onto him no matter what he does,　but you still appreciate the uptick in aggression.　The sensations bloom at your core,　enough for your breathing to quicken,　get heavier;　if you had less restraint,　you’d feel like a dog with your impassioned panting,　tongue tracing the inside of your lip as he circles at your clit.　❛❛  Go ahead,  ❜❜　you delicately mewl,　belying the entirety of your condescension,　❛❛  Do what you want to me.  ❜❜　Power and control,　you harness both.

[notfeel]

[notfeel]

▐║　　⌖　　[nuzzle.] sender buries their face in receiver's neck mid-fuck. + [stroke.] sender gently runs their hands through receiver's hair during sex.　 @brokenfist　[Jong-woo]

Now more than ever,　you aren’t sure how to feel.　Jong-woo stuffed inside you is nice enough,　too-tender in how his frame moves atop yours　⸻　how you are bereft of bitemarks and bruises and skin stinging pink　⸻　sinking into you every time he thrusts,　as if you are fragile ornament,　splayed stolid beneath him in array of uncertainty.　Without inclination to reward his apparent lack of passion,　you’re still,　only just gathering the wherewithal to snake a palm up to the back of his head,　embroider lithe digits through strands already sweat saturated.　Jong-woo must be hellbent on progress in the opposite direction,　nuzzling reddened face into the crook of your neck.

It’s repulsive,　in a sense,　tenderness without purpose.　You would consider forgiving him if he teethed and suckled at your neck,　maybe,　marred you with sweet purples and reds.　He just doesn’t.　Matter of fact skin to skin;　something to be appreciated,　if you were a completely different kind of girl.　Another buck of his hips to guide stiff cock further inside of you.　You tense at the blissful intrusion,　walls tightening around him　⸻　he seems keen on mirroring your gesturing,　what with how his hand closes in toward your skull,　but all anticipation fizzles out in lust-guided haze as he gently,　GENTLY cards through sleek blonde.　

Irritating.　Next he’ll utter something schlocky,　like how beautiful you are or how good you feel,　and you’ll be forced to resist a fluid eye-roll.　God fucking forbid.

❛❛  You can touch me without breaking me.  ❜❜　What gives,　really?　Most men you know fuck hard,　selfish;　fistful of hair gives a firm tug in accentuation,　your knuckles glowing white from your grip.　It takes little effort,　then,　when he has retracted from you once more,　to roll your bodies over,　flip the script,　end up on top of him.　Finally,　you grin down to him in sinister stretch of pearly teeth.　Herein lie the benefits of svelte,　unsuspecting strength.　One hand pushes Jong-woo down at the chest,　the other lining his length up for you to roll yourself down and onto.　❛❛  Really.　Not like you’re strong enough to do real damage.  ❜❜　Then,　while building up a rhythm of him sheathed inside you,　agile hips rolling in fluid motion,　you inquisitively tilt your head.　Had you really bought a nice room for this?　❛❛  That’s right,　isn’t it?  ❜❜　Sealed with a firm smile,　naturally.　Fingers digging into his cheeks to pucker his lips,　you plant one soft kiss against them.　You’re such a bitch.

[notfeel]

What else is noteworthy.　Uhhhhh.　She likes (I'd say love but that's too extreme an inclination) when ppl go down on her and also her tits are sensitive + she also likes when people suck on those. Amen

[notfeel]

Re: locale, she’s not averse to having randos in her apartment since she feels so indifferent about it as a Home to begin with, but typically will pay for a nice hotel room since wtf else is she spending her money on.

[damnd-feels]

Never been loudly vocal, the two of you for that matter– it was often exchanged looks, eyes spoke to one another as if your own language and you would know exactly how to execute in action. Maybe it was shared experience; obedience over following orders, or simply having the chance to be at control of your bodies, life even for just a few hours. That was always the entanglement in the first place. (Commitment to such intimacy was not in the cards, it never felt like it for you, They say it is common tale to meet the one for you not by choice . . . But by chance. She was starting to feel more and more each time, Could it be so bad to accept it?)

Argument formed into exchanges of echoed moans and heavy breaths, weren’t too much of an argument earlier (really you distracted and redirected it in the way you both always did— sex) But it wasn’t like the other opposed either, this was a mutual agreement, and so be it an argument translated through the way you could make her feel, be it. Stubborn boy, always reactive to being inferior to another that threatened something you cared for. Fuck you cared. You care. You like (her) this. Previously accidental passionate sex, Now it was sex as if you had both been a couple fighting. STILL WITH NO LABEL. do people even need labels these days? (Of course you fool. That’s why she got upset about your foolish action.) This confirming everything, Your jealousy, Your pull from her, these ruminating feelings that often occupied your mind whenever there was void, thinking about someone and claiming them as a temporary fling were two very different things. You are jealous.

and yes, you wanted to hear her say your name now, moan it or whatever. anything that maybe just proclaimed you were better. Competitive nature still at present in your mindset, Couldn’t help it that you wanted to rid of your own thoughts of someone better at making her feel this way, and actioning it to prove something again.

Hearing her whimper gave you a boost, felt like she was singing to him— had always been used to gasp for airs more, Or sweet hums and light moans, to be honest you always loved hearing that, but tonight was a reclaim. reflected kind of the first time you’d been with her, Tensioned and reckless. But with loaded emotions, you’re getting her now. Her every plead of fuck making you thrust faster, to hear her gasp for air to give her merely a second to breath. An accomplishment from your end when she does, an exchange of a low moan from yourself, hand that pinned her wrist letting down to follow her request— thumb swiftly entering her lips, The rest of your digits at her cheek, cupping her face, and you let her bite it, suck it, whatever she does to get some resistance and you’d still fuck her harder anyways,

—“I promise it’s only you that makes me feel this way.” You’re losing it sam. Confesssion after confession, Maybe it was because of the heat of the moment, But you’re reckless tonight. And you did mean it. No excuse or justification that others were just flings. But maybe just maybe, this could be more. You want her to know that you’re all hers too. That you regret what you did despite not being exclusively tied. Addicted to the way she looked at you, You want her. and only her. Lips finding hers again, pace coming to a more steady motion but to reflect words, deepening thrusts as you deeply kiss her, a unison rhythm, A goal to hit her core, inside her —weren’t a stranger to rough or the way her body moved but more as if pushing than you’d ever before to hear the rare whimpers she expressed now, and you loved it, wanting to know that it’s you that’s making her feel and react this way.

[notfeel]

Creak,　creak,　creak.　There it goes again,　the mattress shifting back and forth beneath the two of you,　slick with sweat,　chiseling against the wall’s glossy white paint.　You feel alive,　completely and utterly swollen with lust for him.　(It’s best this way,　turning your brain off and allowing your senses to take the reins,　even if only for a few hours.)　For Sam to speed up impels you to writhe beneath him in equal measure,　a resistance to the blisses　⸻　you cannot let a good thing be,　your body will always fight back,　you are more contented than you have ever been and yet your squirm and shiver　⸻　that consistently rewards him,　melody flowing from soft lips like nectar.　Not even the IRG’s greatest asset can resist herself in hoarse,　heavy breathing,　panting erratically with every piston into you.　Nobody can do it like Sam,　for better or for worse.　Nobody can do it like Sam,　and you might as well be stuck with him.　

A reflexive shake out of newly-freed wrist accentuates the surprise at his earnestly following through in your demand,　his thumb jabbing into your parted lips,　quickly taking the shape of his digit.　You suck,　savoring how your cheeks start to hollow in the gesture.　It is an implement through which you may stabilize yourself,　avenue through which you can stifle that pesky vulnerability,　rake it down with the light press of teeth and the trace of your tongue-tip.　Maybe you’re going crazy.　That’s the only logical explanation for any of this,　how you continuously undress yourself so that Sam can shower your body in love,　impart love bites onto you to remember him by,　hold you both as breakable statuette and still as something specifically to be broken and bent.

He can promise whatever he wants.　Whether or not you heed it is another story,　embrace it as gorgeous verity;　maybe it doesn’t matter to you if it’s true.　Maybe you’re completely content with him fucking whoever he pleases.　No,　no,　no no no no no no no no.　That would be stupid.　You really,　really like him.　Maybe you even love him,　you can’t be sure,　you don’t know what it feels like and yet you still have a hunch that maybe this could be close.　❛❛  Sam,  ❜❜　you whine,　pulling your head back enough to speak unfettered.　His name feels safe in your mouth.　You really,　really cherish it.　He feels like heaven inside of you.　You really,　really hate him.　❛❛  Fuck,　Sam.  ❜❜　He fits you perfectly,　a hook into an eye.　

Through another slew of fucked out moans,　❛❛  Fuck,　I love you,  ❜❜　though you whine and whimper too proudly to take notice of the admission.　It doesn’t even cross your mind,　silly little Leopard,　especially not as you’re onto the next slew of fucked-out vocalizations,　head tipped back in pure ecstasy,　trying to keep your gaze leveled on him as the upper echelon of your intimacy and feeling that resistance regardless,　body desperate for some semblance of control.　❛❛  Hit me.  ❜❜　Up and down,　your chest contracts and expands,　savoring every breath you can intake with how Sam adoringly uses your body.　❛❛  In the face.　Something.　I don’t give a fuck,　just do it,　please.  ❜❜

[damnd-feels]

She challenged you, in really all ways possible. somehow always, you found corners of her much like she did with you, by now surely memorising every sides of her but there always seems to be something new, untouched– not in a physical sense but rather emotionally. or maybe it was your messy undescribed connection, bound by the tension that never left from the first day. (you know what it is now foru sure but it's a secret you will keep to yourself.) there was no lie, you had experience, but to an extent of keeping a commitment . . was something you hadn't anticipated. SO YEAH, COWARD, you became a coward and ran off yet again. . . .

but this reaction from her was, enough to know there was something. it didn't matter what it was, in fact you liked that she was mad. NO ONE HAS EVER CARED ENOUGH TO EVEN BE MAD, frustrated or whatever she wants to call her actions earlier– there's a certain boost of confidence on your part, that you got a reaction from her because again, you had no business with who she fucks either, though the exchange of reaction was enough. she liked this, –this whatever this is you had between the two of you. enough to set some commitment, you really tried so hard to not indulge in her jealousy either, YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE UP FOR IT, a deal can come later again . . or something else, fuck you didn't care you just wanted to plead for a chance, messy. messy. messy.

It ws never easy to get a sound from her (at least not one louder than her sweet gasps) but hearing the light hum of her voice from where you were along with the shift of her hips was your cue, circling more at her heat to pleasure her, you can wait for a beg when you already know you want to fuck her hard later, this was just a starter, to prepare her. even so, you liked giving her extra attention. finally taking briefs off while suckling at her clit, almost mirroring a farewell kiss, and letting kissses travel back up to her stomach, nipples and nipping at her jaw,

fuck it, her lips again– desparately pleading still. you'll turn her later, but you still wanted to face her, argument really was never done but you wanted to see her still as you entered into her, eye contact had been something you did share with her, enjoyed with her. dare say, the most intimate you had before the kiss. now both a confession of all mix of your sorry, your guilt but also your frustration all wrapped up in one. you really wanted her to feel you again, –so you thrust, slow pace to begin with but soon enough, deep thrusts into her. somehow your anger and frustrations lighting up your momentum to thrust faster into her, hunger paced as you kept your gaze to hers, a translated look of 'you're mine, and only mine' . hand finding hers and pinning wrist above her, and eventually letting lips travel behind her ear, biting just below as you deepen thrusts more than you had before,

[notfeel]

Tongue lapping at your core almost dares you to forgive him entirely,　forget all his transgressions and release them,　a distant dream cast onto the wind;　you hold your gaze on him for a moment,　then lean your head back against your pillow,　rolling your gaze to the ceiling.　You look to the lights in square formation,　one to each of four corners,　emitting pitifully in the bright-white of day.　Soulless,　like the rest of your apartment.　With fistful of his hair tightening,　you grind your cunt against his face,　swallowing once while your thighs swarm the sides of his face,　flush against his ears,　his cheeks.　Then he’s off you before you know it,　and,　mourning the absence,　you want to curse his entire stupid family,　whoever and wherever they are.　Maybe you’re just bitter.　It’s fine.

His own disrobing　⸻　to what is seemingly its fullest extent　⸻　does not go unnoticed,　either.　You take in an eyeful of his length for good luck,　swallowing again in dry anticipation.　It’s so fucking annoying that he knows exactly how to get through to you,　using your own bodily whims and wants against you.　He knows you so well,　maybe even better than yourself.　(It’s funny,　isn’t it?　He points out those little things,　autonomous motions you’re ignorant of how you carry out,　things that should have been strictly ironed from you in your youth but have seeped through the cracks in time.　He knows you intimately.)

Face to face,　eyes to eyes,　you try desperately to read him,　to make out exactly what he’s thinking in deep shades of brown.　You try,　but nothing emerges.　Is he sorry?　Even remotely apologetic?　Does he value you?　Does it matter?　Does he like you?　Half the time you feel like a nervous school-girl,　recounting a crush in the margins of your skull like it’s crumpled notebook paper.　You want him to like you,　want him to think you’re sexy,　want him to make you his.　You will always yearn to be someone’s　⸻　it is a caveat of not knowing how to be free　⸻　but it wouldn’t be so bad to be his,　would it?

He eases into you,　slow enough initially for you to adjust,　acclimating to his girth stretching you out.　Whites of your eyes expand inadvertently,　bottom lip shaking as your head leans back again,　seeking plush comfort of the pillow;　before long,　he’s fucking you deep,　tough hands on your body all but pulling you even more onto his cock,　trying to sneak into your skin,　or you into his,　doesn’t matter,　cause and effect,　same thing,　same outcome,　same closeness.　Stern comportment does not waver,　even when he keeps his predator’s gaze on you,　like you are thoughtless gazelle wandering the plains and he is something bigger,　stronger:　he could lovingly lick your blood off his lips and you’d sigh dreamily knowing you nourished him,　you repulsive little thing.　You hate affection.　You hate love.　Is this love?　Fuck,　you don’t know.　Maybe you’re going crazy,　brainwashed by the melody of your bedframe creaking every time he fucks into you,　rocking back,　back,　back,　back,　thumping against the wall with the combined impact of your bodies.　You’ll always be on him like an animal.　Calves lock around his legs,　feebly holding him in place while your arms slither to his back,　nails dead-set on their campaign,　streak of candied-red cascading down his back only to then be pinned up above your head.　For once,　your powerlessness has value.

❛❛  Fuck.　Fuck fuck fuck.  ❜❜　Words cannot describe.　Ergo:　　　　　　.　❛❛  Put your—　put your fingers in my—　my mouth,　fuck.  ❜❜

[notfeel]

▐║　　⌖　　[01.] sender bends receiver over a desk and fucks them from behind. - niran.　 @brokenfist

It’s not about playing nice.　It never has been.　You observe Niran keenly,　astutely,　taking in exactly how he roughs up on Noname,　treats him as less than　⸻　jarring,　in a sense,　reflection imparted onto you,　seeing exactly how Professor treats you played out in infinite motion,　and yet you still do not stir,　you do nothing to allow expression to level upon your countenance,　you stand and you observe to best appease both parties;　you don’t pick sides,　you don’t play favorites,　and you,　silly Leopard,　you don’t make choices　⸻　and bow your head to him aloofly,　complicit in his thinking he can get away with whatever he wants.　(He certainly can,　that’s the thing.　You’ve spent enough time with unsavory crowds to watch the worst of the worst get away with their atrocities.　Compared to them,　Niran is a saint.　You would never disclose this.)　Hence,　you’re a dog if he wants you to be,　he can push you around if he wants to,　you won’t bat an eye toward the contrary because you figure you could be rid of him if push truly came to shove.　Not as though you want to speak it into existence.　You’re like Noname,　in a way,　favorable towards attention’s most addictive qualities.

Events therefore always play out differently between the two of you:　you assume submissive role because anything else would be completely out of the question,　and it is a tolerable deviation from your typical carnality,　the foreplay is limited or otherwise not able to be found,　though you figure it too romantic regardless.　With him,　you covet the violence,　let him see if he can force reaction from your ice-wall of indifference through unquantifiable acts of brutality.　Hitting you or spanking your ass vivid or hooking his fingers into your mouth to stifle the nothingness that never follows through.　A hand around your throat that relents only when you’re teary-eyed and scarlet has suffused all over your face.　You can take it,　obviously,　but you can’t help but wonder what he genuinely gets from this.

Whatever.　Joined in unison at some nice hotel you didn’t care enough to catch the name of,　only that the reception desk turned their heads to you and nodded with prim smiles as though they could approximate exactly what was to play out once Niran clicked the door shut,　you’re chasing release you cannot find elsewhere.　That’s why you do it,　at least.　You’re not a desperate girl,　and you’re certainly not snared around his finger like whoever else he gets up to this licentiousness with,　but this is control you get,　in your own way.　The bed looks nice,　towering high in liliaceous immaculacy,　thick pillows lining the top perimeter while the downturned comforter balances the rest.　It’s too nice,　untouched since the two of you set food inside.　By no surprise to you,　his sights are set elsewhere;　split-second and a flit of your gaze reveals exactly where his attention has fixed.　A black-marble desk,　perpendicular to the wall.

You don’t need to be told.　You’re good,　that way,　faultless not only in how you follow directions but also how you intuit,　pick up on what goes without saying,　act responsibly.　Clothes are shed without fanfare,　even the azure of your matching bra and panties,　skill developed through unsavory circumstance,　and he’s shoving you down against the desk before long,　a collision of your ribcage against the stiff surface.　You don’t whimper,　don’t complain.　You stay in place.　You don’t even look at him as he readies himself,　strips down enough,　gives tell-tale rustling of the harness tugged up onto himself as poignant indicator　⸻　then he’s over to you,　maneuvering your hips and thighs exactly as he sees fit,　fingers ghosting over your core.　

Not as though you’re getting preparation or even warning before he pushes into you,　no leeway provided for you to adjust to the full girth stretching you out.　Teeth clamp together to restrict a hiss within the cage of your mouth,　unprepared for the hand that sneaks in and shoves your face down against the desk,　pinning it in place as he builds up a rhythm fucking into you.　Niran’s harsh with it,　rough snap of his hips against your body every time he sheathes completely inside of you,　all before drawing himself back and doing it again.　Again and again.　He grabs at one of your arms,　splayed against the speckled surface,　and twists it back,　borderline painfully,　forcing it down at the small of your back.　You can handle it all.　You adore this,　cherish it even.　You’ll even let free a wanton moan　⸻　albeit a quiet one,　still melodious in its quality　⸻　as your own kind of reward.　He doesn’t need it,　but you’re not a cruel lover.　

When he releases his hold,　you stay in place,　eager to see what he does next.　It’s always something,　something to appease those brutal whims.　Bottoming out inside of you,　he leans forward,　chest flush against your back;　his arm curls around your neck,　throat tucked in the crook as he bends you,　angles your head back while he continues ramming into you.　This is blissful,　you think,　heat rising to flush across your cheeks as you measure your breathing,　honeyed vocalizations fluttering beyond your lips.　You’re losing yourself,　and for now you may forget the rest of your life,　every battered memory a non-factor for as long as he roughs you around.

[notfeel]

Guys I had a vision...,　we all have to be more perverted NOW

[notfeel]

before i send anything just know i forgot the url to this blog and then couldn't find it in my following i spent 20 mins looking i almost gave up. Thats all let me find some smut to send you now

I'm putting you on blast for this