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spice-and-pills · 3 months

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A Cleric and Her Pet: Part 2

CWs: religious imagery used in a sexual context, not safe, not sane, consensual but extremely unhealthy, knifeplay/bloodplay heavily present and used as a punishment, power imbalance, emotional abuse, physical abuse/punishment, no discussion of boundaries, no aftercare, multiple genitalia terms used for an intersex character with an enlarged clitoris, inappropriate use of holy oil

Antoinette belongs to @biohazardblade and uses he/him! Anwir belongs to me and uses she/they/he!

this is OC fanfiction of existing media with references to the work but i will not be directly mentioning it nor tagging it to keep it out of main tags!

Maybe this was a mistake, riling them up on purpose like this, Antoinette thinks, as the cleric stomps through the hall. The grip on his forearm is tight enough to feel those manicured nails he’s become so familiar with digging into his skin through their gloves, though through the barrier unable to draw blood. They yank him along harshly, all the way from the tavern to the inn, silently fuming. It wasn’t often any real emotion was discernible on their face, this time no different, but the energy coming off of them was a telltale sign of their anger. Once at their door, they finally let go to unlock it and enter, and, looking his way expectantly in that way she does, he steps in. The door slams behind the pair, rattling several items about on their desk.

“And who are you to get in the way of a god recruiting a new follower, pet?” she spits venom at him, voice cold, level, and calm, but with an air of something hidden beneath that made Antoinette’s skin crawl. Maybe not in an entirely bad way, he thinks, as Anwir reaches for their staff and points it at him. His gaze shamelessly wanders to the weapon in hand, knees nearly buckling. “Know your place, and not to interfere with my business.”

He’s testing her patience, he knows, by holding his head up defiantly and speaking unprompted like this. “Is it not my business too?”

She pauses as if not expecting that, the corner of her mouth twitching irritably. It’s as if there’s ice frosting over her heart, more than usual. Finally, she replies, cool and unyielding and pressing at the buttons of his psyche effortlessly with each word. “No. What I do is none of your business, dog. It never will be, you know. You.. are lucky I keep you around in the first place, that I let you worship me so. You should be eternally grateful to me, that I have mercifully held onto someone so broken, worthless in so many ways!” Her voice raises, and she punctuates the sentence with a swing of her staff. It cracks against his side, and he crumples to the floor with a wheeze.

“You, Antoinette, are decidedly only good for one thing, and that is being my toy to play with,” she continues, beating the handle of her staff against the floor. A pulse of white light emanates through the room, coursing through the apothecary. It’s not the familiar burning sensation of his healing magic, and feels more like he’s boiling his blood alive. He can vaguely hear lanterns shattering from the effect of the spell, glass shards raining down in the corners where they reside and room going completely dark. They don’t bother to light anything this time. His entire body aches, and his chest tightens at her words.

“Sit up, and on your knees. You may not touch me, nor please me in any way. You may not speak. Dogs do not speak unless they are barking.”

In the pitch blackness of the room, Antoinette hurries to shift his position, legs folded under him as they so often were like this. He can hear them as they step forward, and the laugh that escapes is one of sheer cruelty, with none of the usual delight that comes from him obeying in such a rush. “Even now, even like this, you are so eager to be picked apart by my hands. I could kill you here, dog. But I am merciful. I am kind enough to merely punish you instead.”

Antoinette can’t see the staff well enough in the darkness as he hears it swing, though from where, he doesn’t know. His hearing is less precise than Anwir’s, after all. The blunt head of the implement hits him from above, bearing down on his shoulder, and he cries out in pain. They laugh again. “Strip, then. Unless you would like to make an argument as to why dogs should be wearing clothes.”

He doesn’t. Antoinette begins stripping as fast as he is able, and he hears the occasional shift of clothes from the cleric. Once he finishes and sets his clothes aside, they lean over to touch his face with bare hands. And then, the gentle touch is over as quickly as it begins, Anwir crossing to be behind him. Nervousness shoots through him at that, the feeling that they may be wielding a new weapon ever-present, and they kneel down on the floor behind, muttering into his ear. “You are certainly one of the most pathetic things I have laid mine eyes on yet. I firmly believe you have always been meant to serve as little more than an obedient little dog in the presence of a powerful god. You have no idea, do you? You are nothing.”

The chill of the steel mask brushes his face as they lean in, lips on his neck turning to teeth sinking in in a second. The apothecary can feel the blood flow from his unbruised shoulder as Anwir reaches around to stroke his cock at the same time. It’s a sensation that, perhaps, shouldn’t feel as relieving as it does, and he bucks his hips into her grasp with a broken moan. She drops something to free her hand, and pins him with a growl. “Do not give into your baser instincts, lest you wish I become so disgusted with you in this moment that I never touch you again,” she threatens against his neck before her teeth sink in once more. He isn’t sure when he begins crying. It could have started at any time since she began to speak in her cruel tongue, and it shows no signs of stopping now. Thick blood trickles down his chest, across his back, and he can feel as the beads roll. She laves her tongue over the bite marks until the trickle slows and all she can taste is iron.

He spills over her hand with a loud moan as she strokes, his release quick in her brutal pace and with the pain she was causing him. Maybe he should be more ashamed of the fact that the near-crippling physical hurt did something for him, though he couldn’t bring it in himself to feel even an ounce. Anwir lifts his freshly cum-coated hand to the apothecary’s lips, and he flushes. “Well? Clean it up, dog.” His utterly disinterested tone stings far worse than the tearing of flesh from only moments prior.

But, like a dog, he obeys, lapping at his hand and between each finger dutifully. Once done, that familiar oil scent (holy oil, he had deduced some time ago) fills the air, and his too-sharp canines continue to leave their marks as she begins to press inside. Teeth latch onto his already bruised shoulder as he crooks his fingers, and he whimpers and whines and makes all sorts of desperate noises, twisting and thrashing as he fucks into him despite his earlier command to be still. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, pulling several more dry orgasms out of him until the apothecary is shaking underneath him and growing hazier by the second.

After deeming this sufficient and pulling their fingers out, Anwir stands, and then the clicking of heels is followed up by the toe of one of those boots pressing against his crotch. It isn’t enough pressure to hurt, but it is rather uncomfortable so soon after finishing so many times. He whines in half-hearted protest, and gasps as the pressure increases. It only lets up when he lifts that leg to kick him in the chest, no doubt leaving yet another bruise and knocking the wind out of him as he’s shoved onto his back. Pain blossoms further as he hits the floor, fresh bruises exacerbated. He can barely even wince as suddenly, the head of the cleric’s staff is on his chest, a silent command for him to stay where he is.

Once they seem assured of his ability to stay still, they drop to the floor once again and begin carving into him with the knife. His knife. They seem to be holding back somewhat this time, the cuts shallow and measured. Antoinette arches up into the knife despite himself, and receives a dark chuckle from Anwir in response. They grow almost tender again. Almost. “It is just like you, you know, to be so ready and willing for me. Tell me, pet. You would let me sacrifice you if I so pleased, would you not? Drive your own dagger into your pathetically aching chest, reaching for your heart that beats only for me?”

Antoinette can only nod as the tears begin to flow once more.

“And you would let no one else touch you like this?” There’s a veiled threat in their words. “Only your god is allowed to reach this deeply inside you, cut you open and taste how beautifully you bleed? Speak, dog, and let your words ring true.”

Another gasp as they cut particularly deep across one pec, as if ready to kill him here and now. “Yes,” he sobs openly, stammering out his reply, “only you, for as long as I live.”

“Good.” And then, she pulls away for the final time. “I do so wish I could see you, beaten and bloody for me. Would that it were unlike this, for shame,” she sighs wistfully, standing, staff suddenly alighting to give the apothecary vision once more. When he looks up at them, he can see the blood coating their lips and chin and teeth, and it’s far more exciting a look than it has any right to be. He tosses Antoinette’s dagger onto the floor next to him. “Put on your clothes and go dress your wounds. I will not be doing so this go of it, so that you might learn your lesson. Perhaps you will receive better treatment next time.”

Antoinette winces at her tone, but nods nonetheless. He takes a moment to gather himself before standing, redressing, and stumbling out of Anwir’s inn room to his own to wash up and nurse his wounds back to some semblance of health.

#writing.jpeg #writing #original writing #nsfw writing #nsft writing #nsft #erotic writing #my writing #once more tagging my favorite boy in this to give him credit to his manwhore

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spice-and-pills · 3 months

Text

A Cleric and Her Pet: Part 1

CWs: religious imagery used in a sexual context, forced overstimulation and multiple orgasms, painplay, knifeplay, bloodplay, consensual but abusive sexual relationship, no discussion of boundaries beforehand and zero aftercare, multiple genitalia terms used for an intersex character with an enlarged clitoris

Antoinette belongs to @biohazardblade and uses he/him pronouns! Anwir belongs to me and uses she/they/he!

this is OC fanfiction of existing media with references to it in the work but i will not be mentioning it directly or tagging it to keep it out of the main tags! i will be posting the other parts soon :3

“... Well, I never quite expected this sort of arrangement on these travels, I will admit,” the cleric starts, meeting the apothecary’s gaze with an easy smile. They can’t see him regardless, but they’ve since learned that he’s roughly their height and thus know only that they have to listen for him and look straight ahead. The various lanterns and candles of the inn room are mostly snuffed out, a single lantern helpfully supplied with a bit of bright white magic from the cleric’s own hands. The glow illuminates the pair, more for Antoinette’s benefit than anything. And, Anwir continues, “though, it is not that I’m complaining. I am more than willing for this to continue, dearest lamb.”

Antoinette’s mouth feels dry at the fox-like grin that follows, barely visible in the faint lantern light; ominous, almost. He certainly hadn’t expected to get this far to begin with. The room is hazy, a dreamlike quality in the air as the cleric begins to strip. They don’t bother making a show of it, but it’s a show nonetheless as she deftly undoes the leather corset, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously to reveal that yes, her waist really is that thin, and that the apothecary could almost certainly break her under his grasp if he so pleased. Not that he wanted to. With the corset came the drapery of the half skirt slipping to the floor and pooling elegantly around his feet, and then the untucking of a frilly top from his pants and the unbuttoning that followed. His heart pounds against his chest as she peels off her gloves.

They pause in their undressing, shirt halfway unbuttoned, to tilt their head Antoinette’s way as if listening for something. “Darling, I certainly cannot be the only one laid bare like this, now, can I?” A few, purposeful steps his way, and hands reaching out, cupping his face almost tenderly, if he didn’t know any better. Antoinette snaps back to reality at the grounding sensation. Her hands are cold. Cold like the snows of the Frostlands, cold in a way that is so unmistakably Anwir. Cold like her usual detached, if lackadaisical, attitude. His gaze flits downward, at the slight curve of her chest seen through the low cut, thin chemise under her shirt. He audibly swallows.

They can feel his gaze wander, what with the hold they have on his face, chuckling lightly. “My dear, this will not work should you continue to be so easily distracted. Now,” before he can stop the noise from escaping, he whines as those cool hands release him, another soft laugh from her following the desperate sound, “strip. Do not bother to be a tease about it, for you know I cannot see it, anyway.”

And then he walks away, turning away from Antoinette. The apothecary balks as they bend over to slip off their boots, before quickly shucking off his own outer layer. He knows they’re listening to his every move, knows they're judging his actions as if he were a heretic before a church’s pontiff.

“There we go. Good boy,” she praises, confirming his suspicions of being judged through sound alone, and he can’t help but let another soft whine escape at the praise. He can perfectly envision her wicked grin at that, ready to eat him alive, as she slips her pants down long, slender legs, the curve of her ass and thighs entrancing him briefly before he remembers his task. She does not remove the chemise, as if it’s a step too far even for her. It only barely covers her pelvis, hem brushing across the tops of those thighs and making for a very appealing image. Her flesh is marred, he can tell that much, but the darkness makes it difficult to tell by what. Antoinette can tell only that her skin is uneven, discolored in many places, various textures mapping the expanse. He doesn’t mind. Welcomes it in fact, knowing that perhaps, there is a chance she is not nearly so perfect and unattainable as she comes across.

He hurries out of the remainder of his clothes as she turns to face him again, and he’s somehow surprised to find that he was right once again. Her ever-present grin stretches across her face, cherry-red lips illuminating bright white teeth, maybe too pointed. Not that he minds. She descends upon him like a hungry animal, and in this distraction he doesn’t even realize that they have yet to remove the mask obscuring their eyes at all times. He feels for his lips with painted nails before he kisses him stupid, all teeth and tongue, rougher than Antoinette might have expected from someone so wispy and elegant as he. He doesn’t even get the chance to touch her before the kiss ends as abruptly as it starts, Anwir panting sharp puffs of breath against his now bruised lips. After another moment, they seem to compose themself.

“Ground rules for you, lamb,” she begins. “You may beg in your depravity, or you may ask politely for what you want. You may speak of your own accord when spoken to, but may your divine punishment be swift and merciless shall you speak freely, unprompted,” the cleric once more leans in close, his breathing hot and labored unlike the cool, even tone he speaks in. Antoinette’s pupils dilate at the sight. “If given permission to touch, you are allowed to put your hands under my chemise, but do not remove it. If you attempt, consider me gone and our arrangement no longer. Mind the mask, as well.”

A question hangs on his lips, and, as if they can sense it, they shake their head. “I am not self-conscious, if that is what you are worried about, my dear. Simply that there are things better left unseen for the time, yes? I harbor many secrets in this vessel of mine, darling, secrets that you might never be privy to lest they break your mind before I am ready for it to be broken.”

The apothecary nods. He hardly has time to wonder what they mean by that before they continue, “and of course, you are not permitted to touch unless at my whims. Neither me, nor yourself. If you understand and agree to these rulings, speak now. Silence will be taken as a no, and I will take my leave.”

Antoinette panics momentarily, searching for his voice, anything to keep them from leaving him in his desperation. “Yes-- please, don’t.. Don’t leave me like this.”

A pause. And then another chuckle. “Obedient pet. Perhaps you are more like a dog than a lamb,” the cleric murmurs, settling in on the bed. Her pace is torturously slow to Antoinette’s impatience, but he doesn’t dare complain. Maybe he is like a dog, but as it has been with many instances this night, he finds himself not minding one bit. “Sit, boy.” A thin, bony hand gestures to the floor, Anwir’s voice ringing clear in the tension of the air. The apothecary stumbles in his hurry to obey, knees practically buckling as he sits with his legs folded beneath him. She croons at him, delight crossing her visible features.

“I have certainly picked up quite the pet, have I not? So eager!” Her tone shifts slightly, excitement twinging at the edges of her voice. “Come closer,” Anwir beckons, and he follows, breath hitching as he lifts one of those long legs, hooks it over his shoulder, and tugs him closer still. His heel digs into Antoinette’s back with surprising strength. He presses a bruise into his flesh with the harshness of the action, as if Anwir is barely holding himself back. The new position is compromising, the cleric’s spread legs lifting the chemise enough to reveal their sex to him. His burning, flushed face is close, what with the way they’ve got him pinned, and though he could easily pull away, why would he want to? His erection twitches in interest, but, true to his word, he does not touch himself.

“What do you wish for in this moment? Mayhaps your god will grant it.”

The prompt breaks through his stupor, and he hesitates. Not wanting to say the wrong thing, not wanting this to end when it’s barely begun.

And then, the barest hint of reassurance. A hint of impatience, of need. “There are no wrong answers, pet. Ask politely, dearest. Be firm and clear in your request, lest the god you ask misconstrues it. They can be such tricky folk, you see.”

“I…” Another pause. Antoinette licks his lips as he musters up an ask and tries to quell his stammering. “May I please you?” and then, he thinks, maybe that isn’t clear enough. “I would like to, in whatever way is best for you, that is.”

They offer a light smile, tugging him closer still by the heel. His shoulder aches where they press. “Request granted. You may use your hands, or your mouth. I am certain you need no guidance, given your.. experience,” they say, tone mirthful and teasing. And then, Anwir clamps their other leg around his shoulders and crosses their ankles, effectively boxing him in.

He finds it difficult to maneuver his hands to where they need to be in this moment in the harsh grip of his shoulders, instead opting to lean into her and begin lapping at her clit eagerly, the slight weight of it against his tongue encouraging. She lets out an appreciative sigh, reaching a hand up to tangle in his hair and hold him in place. The muffled moan at the tug to his hair is felt and she responds with a noise of her own, coaxing only a little harshly. He laves his tongue between her folds and she gasps, muttering no shortage of praises his way. He drinks up everything she gives him eagerly, physical and mental alike, and his hands unconsciously lift to rest on the sides of her thighs. Anwir does not stop him, and Antoinette lightly caresses the scarred flesh, as if his hands could pen the feeling of her skin to memory, the textures varying and distinct in what must have caused them.

The cleric is sweet, like the variety of fruits they always seem to be snacking on, pulled from who knows where in their many hidden pockets. It only excites him further, and they keen suddenly as he sucks, yanking his hair and grinding against his face. The sound that leaves him, still muffled around their length, is undignified, though, nothing he has done thus far could be described as ‘dignified’, anyhow. Holy, maybe, in his worship of their body in such a way that might make even Sealticge herself blush. With each moan and praise from the cleric, his own hips shift, digging his nails into their thighs to keep his self-control from breaking and disobeying their orders. Anwir’s own nails scrape against his scalp where she has his hair in a tight grasp, and she bucks once, twice, thrice against his face with a cry before her grip eases and her body relaxes.

His legs loosen, and, just as suddenly as his climax had wracked through him, he releases his grip, presses a foot to Antoinette’s collarbone and shoves, hard. The apothecary tumbles back in surprise, barely keeping from falling flat on his back, and panic shoots through him. Had he done something wrong?

As if sensing the spike in anxiety (could he hear Antoinette’s heart beating like that of a jumpy rabbit?) he smiled in what might have been reassurance. “Forgive me, dearest. I am simply quite sensitive,” and then he was kneeling on the floor in front of the other, gripping his cheeks in between a thumb and forefinger, and pulling him into yet another brief, bruising kiss. “I am done, is all. Once is plenty for me.”

“Done? I--” Antoinette had no time to react as he's slapped across the face, the sound of it ringing in his ears. His cheek stings, tears pricking at his eyes.

“I am done, pet. Not you. And if you were done, you would thank me for it, would you not? Be more grateful,” her voice hangs in the air like icicles, threatening to pierce his heart should he dare defy her. “Apologize for speaking out of turn.”

He shrinks back, nodding hurriedly. “I.. I apologize for speaking without being addressed. It won’t happen again.”

Her expression, or rather, what he could see of it, softens considerably. With the way they tugged on his heartstrings, he wouldn’t be surprised if it gave out soon. “Good boy. Up, then, and onto the bed. Perhaps you do not deserve it, but I have always been a merciful god, have I not?” they tilted their head expectantly, and Antoinette hoped they were addressing him as he spoke once more.

“... Merciful indeed, ma’am.”

He braces himself. The punishment never comes, and they respond with a delighted hum. At the affirmation that what he said was okay, good, even, the apothecary pulls himself to his feet. The pins and needles prickle at his calves, each step feeling like it might cause him to collapse. He trudges to the bed despite this, Anwir following close behind, and before he can sit down, he’s pushed against the cot, blankets soft underneath him. The most contact he’s had with the cleric shocks him to his senses as he climbs over Antoinette, pressing close with his full weight (light, like a feather, and yet dangerous). His body is ever cool to the opposition of the apothecary’s current flushed heat, long, pink hair pooling around the pair as Anwir bites harshly wherever he can, grinding his hips down. “You may finish whenever you see fit, darling lamb. The time for holding back is over,” they mutter against his neck in between bites, drawing blood with those too-sharp teeth.

Even without their permission, he wasn’t sure he could hold back, though he almost wished he hadn’t received the go ahead, already craving the sting of their hand again. He comes with a drawn out whine, likely making a mess of both himself and Anwir’s chemise. Anwir doesn’t seem to mind, laughing softly in amusement. They prop themself up on their elbows, angling their face up to look at him in the unseeing way they do, as if looking straight through his soul. “And would you say you are finished now, dearest?” they prompt softly, uncharacteristically gentle sounding.

This feels like a trap, Antoinette can’t help but think, like whatever he answers will be used against him. He swallows thickly, chewing his lip.

“Well? Yes or no, darling. A rather simple question.”

“... Yes,” he tries. Both answers are wrong. He knows this. A yes implies he wishes to be done, and he has a burning feeling that he’s not getting out of this that easy, nor does he wish to. A no implies greed, taking more than he rightfully deserves. And he’d much rather be seen as spent than overeager to the predator that is Anwir.

“Mm. A shame, really. Seeing as I’m not done with you yet,” there’s an edge to their voice, a deep-seated starvation as they set their sights on their prey. There was the trap. Then, Anwir is on the move, too fast for him to process in his post-orgasm haze, and he isn’t sure where they’ve procured a length of corded silken rope, but they’re pulling him into a sitting position before he can ask. Their fingers are deft as they tie his hands behind his back with ease, twisting his arms into a way that intensifies the already present ache in his shoulders.

He’s shoved back as the cleric procures a small vial of liquid, golden in color, and as she pops the cap, Antoinette can smell a sweetness, the light spice of cinnamon and the stronger, more forward anise-scent of myrrh. Before he can even begin to decipher what the oil itself is, though, she’s already slicking up her fingers and setting the vial aside. Without thinking, his legs spread. “Dearest pet, how many times do you think you can finish tonight?”

She’s setting another trap, he knows she is. And he’s all too willing to play along, he finds. He likes it, even, enjoying the sinister aura she has about her with each snare she sets despite himself. And before he even answers, before he even realizes what she’s doing, her clean hand is on one thigh, nails leaving crescents in the flesh there. Those long, slender oil-coated digits, meanwhile, begin to coax him open, pressing insistently and giving him little time to relax before she’s working diligently to pull him apart piece by piece. His sanity frays as she expertly curls her fingers, making no attempt to be patient or gentle. The oversensitivity was rough on Antoinette’s body already, keening and arching up into each touch as moans spilled from his lips.

“I am going to make you come undone by my hand as many times as I decide is necessary for your transgressions,” he murmurs to the apothecary, breath hot in his ear. “And you will thank me.” Antoinette nods fervently in response, whimpering with each pump of the cleric’s fingers inside of him.

And then, there was a flash of steel. The apothecary wasn’t sure where it came from. He wasn’t sure he cared. It wasn’t Anwir’s blunted blade, the one the cleric never wielded in battle. He could tell by the shortness of it, by the fact that as it was pressed into his side, it cut with ease, as if freshly sharpened. He didn’t even know he could wield a dagger. Was it Antoinette’s dagger, the proficiency of which had been gifted to him by the god of seduction herself? A sharp gasp rings through the air, and the cleric seemingly relished in it. Tears prick at his eyes, then flow freely as the unexpected white-hot pain sears through him, biting his lip as crimson stains the inn blankets below. And yet, as Anwir cuts, raking the knife over his sides, across his stomach, a few more littering his thighs, the assault on sensitive insides and outsides alike never ceases to fire. The room is never silent, praises from the cleric and pleasured and pained noises from the apothecary filling the space effortlessly.

Antoinette loses track of however many times he comes. His head is swimming, dizziness and exhaustion and blood loss tugging at his now bleary vision. And suddenly, everything stops. The active threat of the physical harm being done to his body, the fingers inside of him, and he feels himself drifting away. He can’t, though, as he feels Anwir grip his tear-tracked face again with oily, bloodied fingers. “My lamb, what say you now?”

What was he supposed to say, again? There are several beats of silence as he thinks, and it seems the cleric is merciful while his brain catches up. She waits patiently while it comes to him, and suddenly, he sits up. He hadn’t even realized his hands had been freed until he did so, the rope sliced through a few feet away on the bloodstained cot. His speech is slurred when he opens his mouth to say his thanks, and he’s not even sure if the words got out properly. But she only smiles.

“Good boy.”

And then her hands are on him again, and suddenly, it feels as though fire is coursing through his veins. It’s familiar, the burning sensation of Anwir’s healing magic on the battlefield that he’s grown accustomed to, but somehow seems to hurt worse in this scenario. It’s as if she’s focused the entirety of its usual spread into one person, and with her skill, that’s likely what she’s doing. It shocks into him several times over until it looks as if he hasn’t just been razed through numerous times with his own dagger (and he has confirmed that yes, it is his own dagger, though he’s not sure when or how she got it), and it has the added bonus of waking him up more fully.

Anwir stands. “‘Twas sufficient, dearest pet,” they praise, with an odd smile that he can’t read. It’s not unusual, expression ever elusive in understanding. “Shall I expect you in my bedchambers again in the future, wherever the road leads us?”

Antoinette can only nod dumbly in response as she begins redressing despite the mess of release and blood staining her chemise. “Redress, then, and back to your own room for a nap, yes? My poor pet must be exhausted, truly. And, should you wish to join me, I will be at the tavern later.” And with that, she leaves with a flourish, heels clicking on the floor and fading away.

#sorry for tagging you dandy i will be posting these all here and tagging you so prepare urself i guess #writing #nsft writing #erotic writing #smut writing #smut fic #original writing #writing.jpeg #my writing

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