If I Survived A Slasher It’s Because I Fucked Him

No game just pretty brown eyes and yappin

me acting like I just didn't read the most filthy nasty hot smut fic of my life

I do believe Theodore Nott is all about making love. No matter how good he is in bed, the sex will never compare to being made love to by him. Be it during the summer holidays in Italy, the balcony doors of the little flat opened wide, the sounds of the hustling street coming from the outside, maybe, the street musicians playing some cliché italian songs to the passing tourists. The warm evening breeze carrying the smell of the nearby restaurant, air thick and humid. Your bodies tangled together in an unmade bed, white sheets and all. Theo’s slow, deep and sensual. Sharing breaths and kisses, whispering sweet nothings. Hair messy and dump, tanned skin to tanned skin, hands on each other. He’s not rushing, he’s savoring every second, making love to you for hours and hours, with eventual smoking breaks. Him, bending over the balcony railing, breathing the smoke out, watching the already starry sky. He’d turn around then after a couple of minutes to find you naked in the bed enjoying some peaches or nectarines. “Dio, non svegliarmi, there’s a nymph in my bed”. Then, I believe, you’d both giggle and go back to loving.

nothing dry abt the way i hump

i’m literally just in my room bein sexy n insane

Getting laid in these

I love my solitude but I was meant to be a lover

“slut era” i whisper to myself as i rot in my bed, sick like a frail victorian child