I’ve Been On This Site Too Long

“watch your mouth”

“there’s my girl!”

“language”

“i missed you”

“i’m so proud of you”

“i know you could do it!”

good lord someone needs to sedate me

I need to finish writing that joey piss fic but I just haven't had the time :/

I've been trying to write little by little since like the beginning of february TT

mirror —ghost

—summary: The summer heat has you slipping between sleep and reality. Something not-so corporeal helps you cool off.

—warnings: ghost x human, monsterfucking, piv sex, mirror sex (technically), creampie, dubcon/somnophilia.

—word count: 1,3k

—a/n: no thoughts just horny. also on AO3

The best thing about living alone, you’ve come to realize, is the privacy. You’re free to do whatever: take your time in the bathroom in the morning or whenever you want, spend an eternity soaking in the claw-footed tub this house came with, walk around your home in the skimpiest clothing imaginable (not only does it help to beat the summer heat, it also (technically) leaves you less laundry to do), splay out on your king-sized bed in a starfish position, limbs akimbo, drag the full-length mirror in your bedroom in front of your bed and stare at the way any dildos you own get swallowed up by your greedy cunt.

No point in wondering why the last owner was in such a rush to get rid of it; so much so that he accepted well below market price for a freshly renovated, fully-furnished house with a moderate backyard in a relatively safe neighborhood.

The longer this heatwave lasts, the skimpier your clothes get. There’s barely any fabric to cling to your constantly sweat-slick skin by this point, just a tiny skirt hiked so far up your bare skin touches the wooden chairs when you sit and a shirt that’s more spaghetti straps than torso. The huge, double-door fridge is a reprieve, cool air billowing out and caressing your heated skin. It almost feels like a genuine caress, like someone’s cool hands sliding down your body.

Seriously, you need to get out of the house and meet people instead of fantasizing about the cool touch of your fridge. But the outside is infinitely hotter than the inside.

You kick the bedsheet away from your body, grumbling at the lingering day heat. You’d stripped the sheet from the duvet the moment spring chill had plunged into summer heat and stuffed the latter into the closet until fall. Even then, you tend to wake up without the sheet in the morning, finding it crumbled on the floor. Yesterday was another sweltering day. It has left the air stuffy and the fans only push the warm, stale heat around without providing any relief. You unplug them in a fit of frustration and cringe at the feeling of moisture when you lay against your pillow again.

Sleep doesn’t completely evade you but you’re not fully asleep, either. You think so, at least. There are moments of brief blackouts, where you open your eyes and turn to look at the time only to find not even an hour has passed. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Then, there are the hands on your body. Caressing, petting, groping. They’ve been there for some time now, just touching, feeling. They’re not cold, just cool enough to feel pleasant against your heated skin and inject some relief into your sluggish thoughts of sun and heat. A sigh escapes your lips at the sensation. Fingertips trance the expanse of your skin, draw constellations between your moles and freckles. The other hand moves to rest on your breast. It kneads the soft flesh, gently pinches your nipple between its fingers, runs a thumb over it.

You inhale sharply, heart thrumming in your chest, pressing your thighs together. It does little to quell the desire for friction, or touch. The hand tracing its fingertips down your body reaches your hip, then skirts across your flesh to rest on the inside of your thigh. You blink languidly; the heat is stifling, your head feels thick.

Cool fingers dip between your legs, press against your clit like — like they’re what? Testing the waters. You stifle the half-baked moan in the back of your throat.

The hands leave you all at once and you croak out a sound that doesn’t even sound like you, desperate and needy. They’re back not even a moment later, though, heavy on your hips as if they’re trying to guide you. You reach for a pillow and prop it under yourself. It’s a nice dream, you don’t need it to end because it forces you into an uncomfortable position that drives home the realization that it’s a dream. Because then you’ll wake up, alone again.

Something thick and heavy rests on your pelvis. Maybe this makes you a bad sex partner in this brief dream but you don’t want to reach out and touch it, guide it. If it’s your dream, your partner should know the where and how. The cool hands planted firmly on your hips pull you forward just slightly and the weight from your pelvis disappears. It rests against your entrance, but doesn’t push forward just yet. One hand leaves you and the tip of its cock drags through your slick folds, bumps against your clit.

“Please,” you croak, staring at the ceiling. Your throat is dry.

The stranger’s cock angles itself against your entrance and pushes in carefully. You take a slow, deep breath in, try to relax around the pleasant intrusion. The hands — under your knees now, guiding your legs apart. A body presses against your thighs. Whoever it is, stops, pauses for a moment. You clench around the cock buried in your cunt. A cold, shuddering breath hits you. Goosebumps rise on your skin. The hands push your knees further apart until there’s an ache in your muscles, and then they depart, one finding a spot on your waist, the other your breast.

It moves, then. The cock nestled deep within you sharply pulls back and thrusts in again. You scramble for anchor, to grab onto something but all you come up with is sheet that tugs loose. Their pace is dizzying, thighs slapping against yours, cock plunging into your wet cunt. The sound is so wet and lewd and goddamned loud in the still silence of your home. You go to stifle the half-moan half-groan in your throat but— wait, it’s your house, your dream, who gives a fuck about the neighbors? The cock in your cunt pulls nearly all the way out and thrusts in again and hits that spot, so good, dragging against your slick walls and you swear you feel every groove and dip, every goddamn vein. Your moan slips out involuntarily, and whoever it is here with you, seems invigorated.

The hand on your breast leaves, a forearm rests around your thigh, pulling it up and — fuck, their cock drives in so incredibly deep you nearly choke on your own spit. You scramble upwards, resting your weight on your elbows to look at your partner —

There’s no one there. Your bedroom is empty. But there’s a hand on your torso, cool fingers digging into your flesh and a forearm supporting your thigh and the shape of someone’s shoulder against your Achilles’ tendon. There’s a cock plunging into your cunt and you hear someone’s labored breathing.

The full-length mirror skids across the laminated floor and stops in front of your bed. Something invisible is thrusting into your pussy, gaping back at you in the reflection. Your face burns — your whole body burns. You can’t look away from the debauchery staring back at you. Whoever — whatever — it is, thrusts harshly, cold hands pulling you against their body. Your thighs are wet and sticky, slamming against theirs, your hole gaping back at you, being abused by something you can’t see. It sends you hurtling over the edge.

You come around the phantom cock with something reminiscent of a shriek and a moan and terror and pleasure all combined. Your cunt clenches around the thing your muscles sore and sweat beading on your skin. The cock plunges into you again and again and again and you blink back the tears and the fear and the overwhelming pleasure. The fingers on your body dig into your flesh and the cock nestled in you buries deep, thighs pressing against your own, and spills. It’s so warm, so pleasant. The mirror skids closer, right until it touches the edge of the bed.

Your cunt is forced wide open. Stuffed. The pearlescent cum coats your walls, oozes out from inside you, dribbles onto your bedsheets. The cock in you stays there but the body moves.

A small fogged patch, like warm breath, appears on the mirror, and then, letters.

Hi :)

Oh. So that's why this place was so cheap.

banners by @/cafekitsune

blame my dad

gona call it a night guys

current word ocunt: 1359

lets see how much of this damn piss fic I can hammer out tonight

current word count: 677

what does a girl have to do to get pinned to a wall these days

Passed out like 20 times, but here’s your robot

While I'm doing that Salesman request, how about some Submissive James Sunderland headcanons to hold you over? (I desperately wanna finish this game but I have no time and am too much of a pussy)

Sub!James Sunderland Headcanons:

Minors, do not interact...18+

Never bratty, like at all. He might say something that is unintentionally bratty. But correct him, and he'll be a lot more mindful of what he says to you.

Loves serving you in any way possible. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, massaging you, pleasuring you, any way and every way.

Still, don't yell at him or degrade him. He's pretty sensitive, especially after Mary's verbal abuse. That, and he's also lowkey insecure himself. He hasn't had sex in a long time, and when he did, it was very vanilla. He knows he isn't exactly young, and he's even more insecure about taking supplements to get it up.

He likes being spanked, but only with soft impact, and don't ever slap him, choke him, or spit on him.

Lives for your praise. He has a very big praise kink and will do anything to hear you say those two special words. His dick gets hard just from hearing you call him a good boy. He'll put away grocceries and do the dishes, only to glance at you from the side. Breath clutched before releasing a euphoric huff when you praised him.

I've mentioned this before (and that post inspired this one) but he's got a mommy/daddy kink.

It's not to the extent of ageplay, but it's to the extent where he loves calling you mommy or daddy (depending on you) and relying on your judgement to make some (trivial) choices for him. For example, he might ask you to pick out his clothes for the day or ask you what he should eat.

"Mommy, what should I wear to go to work," "Daddy, what should I eat for lunch? Do you want some?" Things like that. (I'm researching gender neutral terminology for this right now, so please bear with me)

He has a thing for being quiet, but full-on gagging makes him panic, so he opts for sucking on your fingers, breasts, or whatever you have to offer him, depending on your body.

Extremely needy as a sub. He wants to be near you at all times, he wants your attention, he craves your praise, and sometimes your voice alone gets him off. Premature ejaculation is a curse (or a blessing in disguise...?) For him. Sometimes when you praise him, he loses all sense of control and cums on himself involuntarily without a single touch from you.

But you've trained him a little with some edging and orgasm denial, and now it's almost impossible for him to cum unless you give him explicit permission to. If you get a call from him late at night, just know he's whimpering and pathetically begging you to let him cum. And yes, he always thanks you profusely after cumming.

He doesn't verbally whine or complain if you deny him, but he whimpers. A lot. He whimpers like a puppy that had his paw stepped on. He'll cry a little, too. He's a soft masochist; he only wants soft punishments and soft belittlements. Instead of degrading, he wants to be talked to like a pet, sweet and a little condescending at times with a stroke of his hair. Instead of spitting and slapping, he wants kisses and excruciatingly pleasureful denial.

With that said, he's a dacryphilliac to a degree. He doesn't want to sob, but he doesn't mind shedding a tear or two; especially if you express satisfaction for it.

He's interested in light pet play. Padded collars and leashes, and could either bark for you or meow, depending on what you want. He's fine with either or some other pet except pony or pig.

He's shy about it, but he's very curious about prostate play. The first time he tried a prostate massager, you were watching him as he twitched, whimpered, moaned, and grinded against the soft mattress, hoping to angle the toy deeper all while he looked at you with a pout of embarassment and arousal. You could see his gaze, craving your approval and praise, as always. He fantasizes about you buying a remote-controlled one for him.

He started dipping his toe in the sissification pool. James doesn't like the extreme end of the spectrum. He's still new to this, and he isn't too fond of the idea of crossdressing to his knowledge as of right now. But if you put girly clips in his hair or a feminine ribbon around his wrists, he'll like it.