#<- not really for anything. just feels correct to add

[deardaichi]

025. whistles, warmups, and wandering eyes — oikawa toru.

wc: 0.5k cw: gn!reader. seijoh 4 friendship. oikawa has a crush ^.^ a/n: sorry of this is a little ooc. can you guys tell i really love the seijoh 4. i love them more than anything. i hope you enjoy <3 requested by @sxnnee

you don’t notice him at first.

there’s too much going on — tape rolls, clipboard sheets, tanaka forgetting which knee he’s supposed to wrap. the gym’s full of echo and movement, stretching mats shuffled across the floor, someone setting to no one in particular just to feel the rhythm of the ball.

but when you finally glance up — towel bag slung over your shoulder, heading toward the bench — oikawa is already looking.

he doesn’t look away fast enough.

just shifts his weight and starts talking to iwaizumi like he wasn’t staring in the first place. but you saw it. clear as anything.

iwaizumi jabs him lightly with his elbow, the kind of jab that says you’re obvious. matsukawa catches it too and grins behind his water bottle. hanamaki says something under his breath that makes oikawa flick his towel at him in protest.

you don’t dwell on it.

you stack towels, check your rotations, make sure the bench is clean and water bottles are full. oikawa doesn’t look again. or if he does, he’s better at hiding it now.

but a few minutes later, once stretching ends and teams shift into more focused warm-ups, you catch footsteps near your bench.

not one person.

four.

“karasuno’s manager,” hanamaki greets, hands in his pockets, expression entirely too casual. “nice to finally meet you up close.”

“we’ve decided you should transfer,” matsukawa adds. “come to seijoh. cooler jerseys. better snacks. cleaner benches. better view.”

you raise a brow. “view?”

“oikawa,” hanamaki supplies, nodding at him. “he’s a little obsessed.”

“i am not,” oikawa says immediately, in that calm, practiced voice that only cracks a little at the edges.

iwaizumi, predictably, looks done. “we told you not to come over here.”

“i came over here to say hi,” oikawa mutters, before correcting himself. “we came over here. as a team. to be polite.”

“and to scout,” hanamaki adds. “don’t forget that part.”

matsukawa leans in slightly, voice light. “you don’t scare easy, huh?”

“i’m used to worse,” you reply, tone even. “we practice with hinata.”

oikawa huffs a laugh at that — the real kind. soft, surprised.

you look at him then, fully. he’s calm again. composed. like he didn’t get caught looking before. like he’s been doing this a long time.

“good luck today,” you say, not teasing.

he nods. “you too. not too much, though.”

a whistle cuts through the gym — sharp and short — seijoh’s coach signaling warm-up rotations. iwaizumi gestures toward the court with a tilt of his head.

“coach’s calling.”

“saved by the whistle,” hanamaki sighs. “see you around, manager-san.”

they turn to go — all four of them, shoulder to shoulder, seijoh blue moving back across the court like they never stopped being a unit. but oikawa glances back once.

just a flick of his gaze.

like maybe he thinks this won’t be the last time.

you watch him go.

and you think he might be right.

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia@iwantfoodpleasebuymefood @dira333 @kcandyliciouss @beee1221249qq

© deardaichi | everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[onlyyoucanhurtlikethis]

Now we can talk like adults. - kylian mbappe, one shot

You’re still standing by the dresser, pulling your hair back loosely, skin warm from your nighttime routine. The overhead light is off; only the low amber glow from the bedside lamp hums in the room. He’s already in bed—one arm tucked under his head, the other stretched out like it’s waiting for you, like it always is.

You don’t look at him at first. You know that if you do, he’ll smirk.

“Were you serious earlier?”

His voice is unhurried, deep from the pillows.

“Serious about what?”

You twist the cap back on your moisturizer.

“About thinking I’m still deciding.”

There’s a pause. Not defensive—bemused.

“No. I’m not that delusional.”

You glance over. He’s watching you like you’re a slow-burn film. Not in a hurry to finish—just enjoying every second of it.

“You wear my ring when you shower,” he says. “You wear it when you type, when you argue, when you’re ignoring me. You hold onto it when you sleep. I know where your decision stands.”

“Then why say it like that?”

“Because sometimes I like watching your face when you correct me.”

You blink at him.

He adds, shamelessly,

“It’s a little erotic.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like it.”

You bite back a smile. It’s easier not to answer.

“I decided a long time ago,” you say, quieter now.

He just watches you for a moment, then shifts slightly, lifting the blanket and patting his lap without a word.

“Really?” you ask, dry. “You want to have a strategy meeting in bed?”

“I want to see your face while you give me updates on our lifelong union. You standing over there makes it feel like a press conference.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And you look well-rested. So get over here.”

You climb into bed, slow, deliberate. Like it’s a ceremony. He adjusts easily, pulling you across his lap until your knees settle on either side of him.

His hands rest on your thighs. Casual. Warm. Unmoving.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now we can talk like adults.”

“We are adults.”

“Debatable. You hide affection like it’s a contraband item.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you kiss my ankle when I’m asleep. Who’s the menace?”

“Me,” he says easily. “And you’re the one who said yes.”

“Twice,” you clarify.

“Just making sure you’re keeping score.”

You sigh dramatically. He grins.

“You never told me I was too much,” he says suddenly. The smirk fades into something softer. “Even when I knew I was.”

You look at him. Really look.

“You’re not too much,” you say. “You’re just full.”

That makes him blink.

“Full?”

“Of everything. Thought. Feeling. Want. It doesn’t scare me.”

His thumbs move slightly where they rest on your thighs. Like they needed something to do after that sentence.

“You used to,” you admit. “Before I knew what to do with all of it.”

“And now?”

“Now I want to memorize it.”

He doesn’t kiss you yet. Just looks.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“I’m the only person who isn’t.”

That one lands hard. You feel it in the way his jaw shifts, just a little. Like you hit a pressure point.

You soften your voice.

“You know… I used to think I was just boring. Quiet. Like I was made to be background noise.”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head before you even finish. “No, don’t say that.”

“I’m not,” you reassure. “I just mean—I wasn’t wrong. I am quiet. But maybe I’m the exact kind of quiet your life needed.”

“You are.”

“Turns out, I wasn’t too slow. I just hadn’t met anyone worth slowing down for.”

His voice cracks the silence like velvet:

“Why do you say shit like that when I’m already planning to propose again?”

You smile into his chest. Your voice is muffled when you reply,

“Because I like watching your face when you melt.”

He groans dramatically.

“You are so annoying. Sexy. But annoying.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m yours,” he says, low. “That’s what I am.”

And then finally, finally, he kisses you—soft and solid, a palm against your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours like he’s anchoring you both to the room.

You whisper,

“You don’t need to prove anything.”

He kisses your temple.

“I know. But I still want to.”

There’s no performance in the moment. Just presence. Familiar, loaded, sweet.

He holds you.

You stay.

And somewhere in the quiet between your heartbeat and his breath, the only truth that matters lands fully:

This love? It’s mutual madness.

But finally… finally, you both feel safe in it.

[vigilskeep]

taking notes on which sol thought processes could knock viago clean dead instantly. i think “oh yeah i’ve always thought about joining the grey wardens!” is the winner so far

[just-more-pr0mts]

The Tranquilizer

In this AU the justice league and Danny have a sort of 'truce' where danny is part of the justice league but he's a heavy hitter so he only really comes out when it's a dire situation. (He was hit with the full jack fenton growth spirt in this)

Danny is also ruling the entire infinite realms as his main occupation, and is studying as a (whatever) major.

So combined with the recent attack on earth which he was called to, his finals and the new influx of ghosts and their paperwork Danny has been running off of a few hours of sleep and a weird concoction of caffeine and redbull. This admittedly was not good for his health and it was seriously starting to worry his significant other, a ferocious goth, Sam.

______

Sam has had enough of Danny's nonsense he had not come to bed for the last 4 days and has been working himself to death no pun intented. So she packed up her things and made her way to the place she knew Danny would be.

______

Danny knew this was coming, it had not happened in years bit Danny knew Sam never left home without it. He was just hoping that she would have atleast waited till he was done with he's meeting! What would Martian manhunt think of him after seeing his pregnant wife tranquilize him? Oh and how the hell was she able to carry his 6'3 figure while pregnant?!

[lordgeneralsix]

ok... so I have finally finished veilguard after about 90 painful hours (two playthroughs). im not gonna write an actual review about all of my detailed thoughts bc it'll actually take days, this is just to at least get my general thoughts out and see if anyone else feels the same or if ive actually lost it.

overall it is the weakest dragon age game story-wise, and I'd give it a nice lukewarm 4/10.

(i wrote this post right after I finished the game on the weekend so maybe I sound a bit harsh, I tried to edit it to be more reasonable lol but I didn't really want to delete this since I do still stand by a lot of this)

I really tried to go in with an open mind, bc I always want to experience media in full before making any kind of judgement, but about a few hours in I had this horrible feeling that once again this was another soulless, rushed game, and I still don't feel any different after finishing the game.

what stuck out to me was that there's no sense of urgency despite what the plot is, serious topics are not treated with care as the writing overall is shallow, and the gods as well as any other enemy you encounter are just cartoon villains (and apparently the lore retconning, but I'm not well-versed enough to dissect that so I won't).

I can't take this plot seriously when it feels so disjointed and forced and lazy. and I see no point in caring about anything when choices literally don't matter. no say in who you recruit, no say in the relationships with them and they have almost no awareness of rook, definitely doesn't matter if you have allies or not bc they show up anyway, and only four companions are locked into unavoidable decisions where one of them bites the dust no matter what (which is strange bc why are harding and davrin forced to die no matter if they're at hero status while bellara and neve can literally survive blight if they're at hero status), so it's impossible to try to strategize for better (or worse) outcomes with all the people you've gathered when there's only one right answer that the game pretty much tells you instead of letting you think for yourself (and side note this game does an incredible amount of hand holding). the game actively tries to trick you into thinking your choices matter with the onscreen notifications, but nothing matters bc the devs clearly had only one story in mind and for some reason lied that it had "complex choices".

also rook in general wasn't interesting as a protagonist bc they were written to be perfect. they always know what to say and are so supportive of everyone. they never struggle with anything. not even with leadership beyond "man leading a team is hard :/" but it doesn't actually show how hard it is by having actual volatile conflict between the companions* or showing how their plans sometimes fail. which, if we actually had choices that mattered, would have helped develop that struggle. also? what's with everyone being so friendly? I'm not gonna get into that but everyone is so eerily nice and it's been said a lot but yeah, the world is extremely sanitized and devoid of any real conflict aside from the gods I guess.

*(like off the top of my head cassandra fighting with varric and accusing him of not being on their side or how the inquisitor can literally punch dorian and solas if approval is low enough or fenris and anders bordering on killing each other is not the same as lucanis and davrin distrusting each other or people being uncomfortable with emmrich's necromancy. it just scratches the surface of conflict and never goes anywhere)

and let me say real quick again, there's nothing wrong if they wanted to make a more rigid story about being a hero. it's been done a million times and it can be executed well, but if you do that you need to make sure you 1) don't lie to people and 2) actually flesh out your (especially main) characters and plot to give people a reason to care. look at dragon age 2. hawke is a fixed protagonist with their own life front and center. they ultimately only have two choices (siding with mages or templars), but it works bc the game took time to build up the conflict straight from act 1 so by the time chaos happens in act 2 and 3 you understand why bc it's Been brewing the whole time. it just makes sense. the villains as well have sound reasons and feel real instead of being evil just bc. the story is more grounded, yet you have choices. you decide if hawke ends up alone or not. you decide how they approach situations with force or diplomacy. there's none of that in veilguard. a game that supposedly took 10 years to make. when dragon age 2 took almost 16 months (yes I know da2 also has problems like the fact that the templars are always proven right but this isn't the place to dissect that).

I want to be fair though and I do want to restate what I enjoyed about the game. the cc (though would it kill them to have more variety in face textures like age and body types beyond average.. also no colour wheel... especially since they claimed their cc was so good), the map progression/visuals/exploration (how certain places become more blighted overtime), the factions (though I feel there should have been more content for your faction, and helping them or not should have mattered more), the combat (did not feel like a slog, pretty fun and mindless), the companions (bellara, davrin, emmrich, harding, and lucanis had solid personalities and stories despite my complaints. neve was not memorable and I just feel sad for taash's bad writing), certain parts of the story were good, the intro and the point of no return sequences were solid, and the ending didn't feel rushed or boring compared to inquisition. and yes, I do appreciate that rook can be trans, I just think a little more subtly and care would've been nice.

another thing I did like and predicted was that varric died at the beginning of veilguard, and for a second I actually enjoyed that because i thought we were finally (a bit too late tho) getting some depth to rook and their own struggles of accepting his death and carrying this weight without him. and while I do think maybe they should've taken more time to establish the mentor/mentee relationship so we really feel rooks regret, I still think it was at least the right direction where in their grief they still see him, giving advice and narrating their journey.....but then it turned out to just be solas manipulating them the whole time, immediately destroying any emotional weight this reveal had.

whenever bioware has good ideas they shoot themselves in the foot and make it about solas. it's like nothing in the world exists without solas being involved somehow, and that is just incredibly boring and uninspired to me. not to mention solas just being an insufferable ass the whole time, which is fine, but it's not even in a compelling way like he used to be. he became so ugly by the end and the fact that the devs consider redeeming him the "good ending" and not giving him what he deserves is very telling and once again shows their own bias is king over good storytelling (solas' feelings should not come into play here, whether you/your companions live or die should determine good/bad ending since solas is trapped no matter what, only difference is who is trapped with him. idk but I personally think different endings actually means different outcomes). i will not go into the bs of the secret post credit scene, bc frankly I'm fed up with bioware's shitty writing and I won't be playing their next world ending space aliens game (unless they miraculously pull a good story out of their ass but lbr).

overall the bad outweighs the good for me. it's fun to play as a game, it's a decent fantasy game, but the story just doesn't do anything for me. sometimes I wonder if dreadwolf was a completely different game and was scrapped for veilguard last minute. maybe this was yet another inevitable industry fuck up and maybe there was a good story planned at one point. idk. all I know is bioware lied. respect and credit to the poor devs and writers who actually cared and to those who were kicked from the project, but in the end bioware promised too much and delivered too little.

[ivalice-tifalucis]

With the release of From The Rehearsal Room - Tokyo to Ramin's youtube I finally, finally, continue and finish this side project I'm doing.

Initially, I used AI to mastered it because the first version I got from bilibili were not in good quality but I wasn't satisfied and I found the much better quality. But with Ramin uploaded it to youtube, I re did all the mastering just with audacity for both Part 1 and Part 2. The Part 2 is still from the better version I found from bilibili, by the way.

What you need to do is just download the file and put it on your music player. The metadata is all completed as if it's whole legit album. Enjoy, guys!!

And I'm being weird so all the lyrics that are put there are from my listening although I still use what I found online but I still listened and compared. They made few ad-libs and changes and I notice because for the songs that I wasn't familiar, the lyric that I found online and what they sang was slightly different. Perhaps they sing the newer version of the lyrics or mistakes? Even each Sheytoons songs they sing one in both parts differ from the ones I found online.

Another sample from my favorite:

Source and Credits Part 1 | Part 2 (Ramin's upload) Album cover Photos

Vocal & Guitar: Ramin Karimloo, Hadley Fraser Piano: Ryohei Mori

[smokbeast]

weird question but, are ink, nightmare and dream sanses?,, like I find them so off canon to be considered one but I know they’re called sans

[silent-sentinels]

we're so lucky theres only 26 of us this profile shit is tedious enough as is hkjgh

[what-even-is-thiss]

Basic life stuff on Father’s Day your dad may have never taught you

Men’s pants often have what’s called vanity sizing so a 32 inch waist between different brands is actually different sometimes. It’s still a good idea to try the pants on before you buy them.

A flathead screwdriver can be used on a Phillips head screw.

It’s always morally correct to simply walk away from a salesman. You don’t need to buy a mattress to be polite. Just leave. Walk away. Skedaddle.

A complete meal has fat, protein, carbs, and some kind of fruit or vegetable. A snack should have carbs and protein. That’s how you stay full for longer and get your vitamins. It’s really that simple.

Dumpster diving is legal in many countries including the US, Canada, and Australia but trespassing and property damage are illegal. If you are allowed to be in an area and can access the trash without breaking anything you can just take stuff

You should be thinking about retirement savings even in your 20s and 30s. Get a mutual fund.

If you go gambling, only spend cash and pull out exactly as much money as you’re willing to lose from the atm. Never use a credit card in a casino if you can avoid it.

You can add a layer of seasoning to a cast iron skillet right on the stove. You don’t actually have to put it in the oven every time.

To build a fire, build a little pile of kindling first with plenty of air under it. This can be sticks or leftover wood from the hardware store. Doesn’t matter. Then light some newspaper or leaves under it. This’ll help the kindling catch on fire. Then you can add a log to it. The log needs a long exposure to flames before it catches on fire.

Fresh cut wood needs to dry out for several months before it’ll work as either building material or firewood. Several years is even better.

Flower delivery for simple bouquets costs less than you think it does and makes a nice gift for people who are hard to shop for

University libraries often let the general public get a card to check things out from them for a yearly fee. This is useful to know if you’re ever doing some specific research.

To make hard boiled eggs easier to peel boil them with just barely enough to cover and let a lot of the water burn off. Then shock them in an ice bath when they’re done.

If you or your pets end up killing a venemous snake by accident or in self defense you should bury the head so that no animals get poisoned by it because the fangs can still distribute venom

Tall people who visit your house can see the tops of your cabinets and bookshelves. Clean accordingly if you don’t want people to see dust.

Annuals are plants that will die after one year and perennials are plants that live for multiple years

If you feel gross and like your life sucks maybe try getting a haircut

[catboybiologist]

half baked morning rant

I do want to make it clear that the reason I talk about HRT and its biological effects so much is not because HRT or medicalization defines your gender.

Its because, for me personally, the interface of my biology education and my transition was mostly centered around figuring out what sex hormones do. I learned about basic biology principles like DNA organization, gene regulation, cell biology, and physiology in high school and undergrad. Taking that understanding and extending it to the mechanisms that hormones use to change gene regulation, and by extension, the rest of your body broadly, was something I did as my understanding became more complete in later undergrad and grad school. It was the key to me starting my own transition.

Why?

Because it was the first time I realized that the "basic biology" arguments of transphobes were complete and utter bullshit. From that point, it was a cascade. As in, wait, if dynamic changes in gene expression aren't considered "biological" to them, then why am I believing anything they say about anything else? When they talk about gametes, and try to include infertile cis people in their definitions of biological sex by talking about what gamete you're "intended" to make, what do they even mean? Why does my current gene expression not define that "intent"? And wait, back up, why is the brain suddenly not considered part of our biology? Why are neurological differences suddenly not "biological"? Why can we say someone's thinking patterns aren't "biological"?

Backing up even further, why does any of this matter more than psychological gender, or sociological gender? If the way we navigate society is gendered, that affects a lot of our lives, and we're just throwing that away?

Basically, being educated about how deep the biological changes of HRT really go was the first domino to fall when I worked through my internalized transphobia.

This is one of many reasons why I hate, hate HATE the concession that uninformed allies and even many trans people themselves give: "well NO ONE is saying that you can change your biological sex, sex and gender are completely unrelated, sex is binary and gender isn't!!!!!"

Well. I am saying that you can change your "biological" sex, I am saying that biological sex isn't binary, and I am saying that misunderstanding of those points has set back transgender advocacy. It makes medical decisions surrounding us less informed, it poisons conversations about how we interact with society, and it makes trans people feel like their gender and sex are less "real" than cis people's.

Not to mention the horrific way it discards intersex people from the conversation entirely.

Recently, I've seen this point enter the mainstream a little, by using intersex people and variation of sex in other species as a "counterargument" to "binary biological sex" thinking. It still doesn't sit right with me. One, because it uses intersex people as a prop for trans advocacy while not actually addressing the needs of either group. And two, because it completely disregards that your current biology and physiology is not 100% predestined from birth, and using people who were "born this way" as a prop does absolutely nothing to increase people's acceptance of trans people who change their biology later in life.

Ugh. This got away from me but yeah. That's my sipping coffee ramble for this morning. If anyone wants to add comment or correct me on discourse here, please do. Especially if you're intersex- this is all the observations of a perisex trans woman.

[meowdei]

Sukuna who was never close to his twin brother and never cared about the pipsqueak runt of a kid who’s his nephew.

He doesn’t care and doesn’t want to be associated with that bullshit. His brother doesn’t take the hint ever and invites him to everything. “My sons’s birthday party” this and “my son’s kindergarten graduation” that. What sort of graduation is meant for a kindergartener anyway? That’s a load of nonsense. But Jin is as annoying as ever with insisting on keeping contact and trying to get Sukuna involved and he hates it until by some tragedy out of nowhere, his brother and sister and law are dead. Yuuji’s left an orphan and no one can care for that kid because there’s no one left.

No one except Sukuna.

They ask him, too. The social workers. They turn to him and say some pitiful script about being “the only family left to take custody of him.” He knows pretty well what’s going to happen to the pipsqueak if he doesn’t agree. The foster care system and the possible horrors such a bright (even if annoying) kid could face makes him question saying no for a second. He’s surprisingly conflicted.

And it’s out of sheer impulsiveness alone does he end up as a single, grumpy, begrudging uncle who’s got custody of a child he never really cared to know in the first place.

And then he meets you.

Sweet, bubbly, warm, and so weirdly happy. Dictionary definition of what an elementary school teacher should be. Yuuji’s absolute favorite person on the planet as he waves hello at you enthusiastically every time that Sukuna drops him off and goodbye every time that Sukuna picks him up.

“I heard his new guardian would be his uncle. It’s nice to meet you,” you murmur to him the first day he picks up Yuuji after school, a look of pure melancholy on your face as you stare at him with an unearthly amount of compassion and sympathy. “Yuuji’s parents were wonderful people. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Wasn’t that close with either of them,” he grunts out. You look over at where Yuuji’s gleefully playing on the slide of the playground. Too young and innocent to realize that’s been ripped away from him. Too naive to understand what it means to grieve. Too hopeful about the world around him to realize just how cruel it can really be.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding slowly.

He thinks that your unnaturally kind demeanor will finally be broken for a split second of judgement. What sort of heartless bastard doesn’t feel an ounce of grief for his own brother’s death? Instead, however, you seem to look at him with some weird sense of wonder.

“You’re a good uncle for stepping up regardless,” you say softly, “it’s more than what most would do in your shoes.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he clicks his teeth, unbearably uncomfortable with how weirdly sentimental this all is. “He’s just a five year old. How much trouble could he be?”

You raise a brow in amusement, eyeing him like he’s got one hell of a surprise waiting for him. He doesn’t like the vague way you hum, “Yeah. How could such a little human cause trouble, right?”

“I’ve got it under control,” he grumbles, a little annoyed that you seem to think that out of all things, a simple child would be enough to cause Sukuna any issues.

“Let me know if you need anything,” you smile.

Yuuji calls to you from the distance, squealing look what I can do! before he does a rather clumsy spin. Sukuna raises an unimpressed brow. You clap and praise him with an exaggerated gasp of approval.

It’s oddly endearing, he thinks to himself—you, not the kid. The kid’s barely tolerable.

“C’mon, you brat,” Sukuna calls. And then he looks at you and gruffly adds, “And I don’t need help.”

“Okay,” you grin brightly. It almost feels like you’re saying that a little sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ve got this parent thing down.”

Before he can even correct you that he’s an uncle, not parent, Yuuji comes running over on clumsy, short little legs and grabs onto Sukuna’s hand.

“C’mon, Uncle ‘Kuna!”

Sukuna doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften. Weirdly enough, he feels this odd sort of squeeze in his chest that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe he’s just getting old—that has to be it.

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

[buckyalpine]

18+ Minors dni Enemies to lovers with some massage therapist Bucky. Breeding kinnk, aftercare, Bucky is a secret softie, all that.

Imagine Rival Biker Bucky x f reader. A smutty, slutty little concept while I add the finishing touches to another fic, just getting this out of my system first. I just love the idea of a sexy, bad boy Bucky getting his hands on the one girl who won't give him a second glance because she's too good for him and they're from opposite worlds. Since childhood. Now he's a biker. Covered in black ink. He works in an auto shop. Owns the bar that brings in chaos. He's smoke, whiskey and leather.

She, however, is soft, pretty, smart and does not have the time to entertain someone like him. She has her degree. Working on a second. She has a career. She does not associate with the likes of him, not as the police chiefs daughter. She'll be damned if she has to even breathe the same air, especially when his gang is the cause for half the problems in the town that her father has been trying to get rid of.

Now, imagine that hours of working on her notes and papers leave her with unbearable knots and kninks in her back. She doesn't want to take a break but the pain only gets worse as the week goes by. It doesn't take long for her to shoot her regular massage therapist a message to book the very first available appointment.

-

You unclasped your bra, folding and setting it off to the side while waiting for Wanda in the warmly lit room. You could have sworn she was a witch with the way she made pain disappear; she’d also become a good friend after your many visits.

The knock at the door interrupted you as you slid your shorts off, leaving you in your panties, not rushing to jump onto the table considering it was just Wanda anyway.

“Come in!” You smiled, making your way to the massage bed as the door clicked open- “Oh my God!!” You nearly shrieked seeing Bucky walk in, a shit eating from spreading across his face as you scrambled to grab the tiny towel to cover yourself though it was a futile attempt. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

"You have an appointment, don't you?" He quirked an eyebrow as if it was clear as day why he was there.

"Yeah, with Wanda, why are you here, did you get lost on the way to jail?" Your face scrunched in a mix of confusion and disgust ignoring the roll of his eyes while you snatched your shirt to better cover up.

"Well Wanda couldn't make it in but she sent me" He said with a shrug, sighing when he saw your less than impressed face, "Don't flatter yourself, I'm just training under her as part of my physiotherapy internship"

"I'm sorry, you're trying to tell me you of all people are learning how to give massages? Please"

"Physiotherapy" Bucky corrected, "You're not the only one who has a degree, princess" Bucky watched as you groaned realizing you hadn't put your bra on, opting to stuff it in your bag instead of putting it back on in front of him.

"You are NOT laying a finger on me-ow!" You hissed, feeling the knot in your back tug at the rest of your muscles.

"You're not gonna be able to do a whole lot with that much pain" Bucky smirked, only half joking. He wasn't wrong. The pain was worse than before and you needed this an you really didn't have the time to reschedule.

"Fine" You mumbled, turning away from him so you could take your shirt off again, glaring at him when you noticed he hadn't turned away. "Could you at least give me some privacy instead of lurking in the corner like a pervert"

"Whatever you want, princess" He bit his lip as he faced the wall, hearing your feet pad across the tile to lay down on the massage table.

"Alright" You huffed after covering your lower body with the towel, now laying face down, immediately second guessing yourself as he walked over.

"Let me know if anything's uncomfortable or if you want me to stop" His voice was no longer snarky; in fact he sounded professional. "Where do you feel the most tension?"

"Um-shoulders and-lower back" You mumbled out the last bit, he was going to massage you there anyway so there so no pointed hiding it. You tensed at the feeling of his oiled fingers starting to work at your muscles, he had no right to be that good. At all.

“Shit” you hissed trying to keep your voice down, ignoring the clench of your stomach feeling his rough fingers press down on the areas that were tight. Little did you know Bucky was struggling far more than you were.

It went against every bit of professionalism he had. Every moan you tried to silence went right to his cock, his hands making their way lower before trailing up again. Fuck, you sounded so pretty...

"Better stop making those sounds"

"Or what" You challenged back before you could even stop yourself.

"Princess..."

"Your attitude is what needs fixing" Bucky growled, professionalism be damned, "fuck this"

-

You have no idea how you ended up here. It didn't matter though, not when there wasn't a single cohesive thought in your brain as you wailed letting Bucky absolutely rail you. Your back didn't feel an ounce of pain as he took you on all fours, pulling your hips to slam back against him, gripping your ass with enough strength to leave you sore.

"Feel better now huh baby, not trying to stay quiet anymore, are ya" He let out a low chuckle which melted into a groan feeling you tighten on his dick, "Such a good little princess like you letting me put my dick in you, dirty girl"

You hate to admit it but the clench of your cunt betrays how much you love this. It was so wrong. You had no business fucking someone like him and yet where you were letting his precum paint all over the inside of your walls.

"What would your daddy say princess, if he knew where you were right now, what you were doin'? Thinking you're studying when you're actually all pretty and naked, letting me rub that gorgeous body up and down, bet you'd let me put my cum in you too, huh? Bet your dad would love that, his perfect little girl all knocked up with some bikers baby"

You could have said no, stayed silence, just about anything but nope. You screamed feeling his fingers reach around the massage your clit, your orgasm wasting no time hurling towards you.

"Ja-Ja-JAMESSS"

"MMMPHH I love the sound of that baby, could get used to hearing you sayin' my name, say it again princess, say my name with my cock in you, c'mon, that's it"

"Fuck-James-I-James" You were a mess and loving every bit of it, tears starting to flow down your cheeks, all the pent up stress you were feeling finally releasing. You felt your throat tighten, a sob escaping your lips as you let go, your arousal making a creamy mess on the dark curly hair on the base of his cock.

"God, you're milkin me, you want my cum that bad huh baby, want a little biker baby in that tummy of yours, I'll give it to you, give you so much I might even put twins in there-FUCKK"

-

"Shhhh" Bucky cooed, wrapping you up in a fluffy towel while cuddling up your limp body, wiping away any remnants of tears while you stayed floating in a subby, post sex haze. "I got you, you did so good princess" You only manage to let out a weak whimper, giving into his warm, thick arms that rock you.

"You alright angel?"

"Mph" you mumble against his chest and he reaches over for a glass of water that's nearby, bringing it up for you to take a sip. You're surprised at how sweet he's being, drinking up before snuggling into him again. Damn him for being so warm and comfy.

"Y'know, there might be a little Bucky in there" He whispers with a playful smirk in his voice, fingers tickling your lower belly, chuckling when you narrow your eyes at him.

"You wish" You sass back, ignoring the butterflies you feel.

"I do" He admits, biting his lip, his previous cocky demeanor replaced with a shy one, though he tries to mask it. Poorly. His cheeks are pinker than the time you threw paint on him for pulling your pigtails. When you were both 4. "I'd want Bucky jr. to have your brains though"

Imagine that incident sets off a very interesting chain of events. A confession of feelings. You both couldn't be happier, meanwhile your father is grumbling about how he knew this fuckin' day would come, God damn it.

"I never liked that boy" He struggles to keep a scowl on his face watching you giggle like you were 4 again, running to the door as soon as you hear the rumble of his bike.

"Shut up, you love him" Your mom chides, watching Bucky swoop you up for a loving kiss, heading you a bouquet of yellow flowers as he always does.

-

"I still don't like 'em" Your dad says while you roll your eyes, your arm linked with his as he walks you down the aisle.

"Is that why all the files you had to build a case against him all suddenly went missing?" You tease and your dad shugs.

"Wasn't me"

-

just an idea.

[strab3rr]

(long story and no short sorry) GUYSSS I DID ITT

I INDUCED IT!!!!! I WAS PURE AS A FUCKING BABY

IDK WHAT TO SAY (ok enough w capslock)

i have so much to say and not a thing at da same time idk how

anyway i want to begin with thanking you @b4ddprincess bc youre the reason i realized why i started this thing. thank you for making my life better and make me realized what i need to do: nothing. (its same for you guys, all u have to do is nothing)

two fuckn years ago i said to myself that i need a better life, quiter life, less fight with everthing bc everything was so loud and not clear i was feeling lost like a child in the market, and i wanted to make things better for myself in every way, but the main idea of my reasons to wanting to get in the void was: making anxiety go and having better people in my life. but the ''voidlist'' just never stopped bc im kinda greedy(having the idea of controling on your life, the idea of that power makes you greedy. yes thats a thing) anyway the more i add to the list the more i feel like im movin away from my desires then i feel depressed bc ive overcomplicating it bc theres so many things to do but i dont do anything so nothing happend bc i was waiting to be someth happen. and then i started doing awkwardly silly things such as: void routines and challenges and (im embarrassed of this one bc i was too desperate) drinking water

youve read it correct drinking water.

i was sooo desperate for having those things id do anything to get them.

i am simple. i want what everyone wants🎀🎀🎀: shifting realities bc i have so many crush and i need them to be crush me in bed(for 2020 girlies)

being an academic weapon is so easy for me🎀(bc of the urge to make my family proud) +dream collage

being the girl that everyone gets along w(basic needs)

being the girl who is pretty not cute(trauma response)

glowing aura(cats loves people w glowing aura yes thats a thing too)

dream body n hair(bc i deserve this🎀)

healthy (girlyfriend)friends(basic needs)

and of course him, my sp(i cant tell wich one at that time but i releived that its not him now, bc MY BELOVED CURRENT BF. guyss he is the one. dont u dare ask me how you know? i literally manifested him🎀)

then i realized i can have everything bc its my reality so why not add these:

new phone, +macbook air

dream apartment of my own

pinterest closet

lifa app for this reality

financially free-money(a lot. like really a lot)

knowing 4 languages like a native person(bc i want to be diplomat so bad) +sign language(its in general)

a little drama(its not gonna hurt anybody)

my parents being more lovable and away from me

every time i try to get in, either i was failing or falling

and im sick of it, sick of it so much i quit.(for a year)

then i go to the theraphy(ofc no im jk ilove being crazy)

one day i saw a post ss from tumblr about pure consciousness on pinterest and i was like whaat is thiiss. no mention of void so i thougt its a diffrent thing and i download the tumblr again and search everything abt it. and same excitement again after one year same thougts and same list popes up in my head. and i was like ok maybe this time itll happen.

still waiting to be someth happen so nothing happend, it was such a waste of time trying to get in while i was already be, i was already what i want to become. i was that girl that everyone gets along with but i couldnt even see bc i was too focused on wanting to be. but still tried every night and failed. and again tried-failed-quit circle bc.. have you ever met me🎀

4 month ago i saw the girl, iconic blogger and the goddess of my dreams, her @b4ddprincess thx again love u so much

a post pops in my fyp and i see the words ''pure consciousness'' i was like noo not again. and i was serious abt it i wasnt gonna read the whole thing but it attract me n i couldnt resist it so ive read it from the top to the bottom. and she got my interest so i stalked her page from the last and to the first post. it was quiet a beautiful journey for me. lasted like 3 days, the end of the 3rd day i was ''woaw it was this easy all along? u cant be serious.'' she was. i tried one last time, no breathing exercise, no ridiculous routines and no waiting something to be happen. it was just me being real me chilling out asf.

and it was this easy and it should be this easy bc being your 4d self is being nothing also being everything at the same time. if u wanna be everything you should be nothing first(as wizardliz saying: drop the old story, leave the victimhood, for being better stop being bitter etc.)u should make a space for everything first and then u can be everything.

for being 4d self of yours stop being your3dself.

sooo long story (no)short i am writing this from my mac in my new apartment(in middle of the night bc i couldnt sleep and then one tumblr notification reminded me i have a success story to share too) and my phone buzzing two minutes a time bc of my friends while im writing this, so if theres anything wrong ignore it pls.

oh u asking my bf how cute, hes sleepin in my bed now, exhausted from the work n school balance.

YWS SCHOOL!! im in my dream collage and im going to be in paris for a week. i deserve a vacation i guess(its for another conference), i kinda hate french men bc theyre so mansplaning(not like how i imagined, its hard to be friends w them)girls are cute but i feel like theyre aware im not permanent there so we just con buddies still cute and hepful for this foreigner.

and i canceled the lifa app thingy bc i can be my purest consciousness anytime i want, so i am my lifa app.

and thx to 4 languages i make a lot of money and that brings us to the pinterest closet, yesterday i realiased that. theyre not comes to me w an imaginary way like i imagined! i go outside for shopping casually and theyre there luckily i have enough money to buy them.

and my family theyre living in our hometown now so as i want it to be, we are away from eachother.

and the most magical thing: SHIFTING REALITIESSS

i did 5 world before i met w my bf. it was such a wonderful experience. if you have doubts abt shifting you can go fuck urself

because sir i did it and i am very sure that dean winchester being my husband is not a daydream, fantasy nor lucid dreaming. believe it or not he kissed me GOD HE KİSSED ME(someone should stop me i have a bf)

is there anything i missed let me see.. cats i have 2 cats now and theyre adorable. glowing aura-check

the girl who is pretty not cute- check +make anxietygo-checkcheckcheck

dream body and hair- check and check

i wanna give u a info i didnt have all my desires by being my4dself

not directly actually. but i have them all. and thats the point.

im not trying to be a blogger but if you have any question abt anything, id be happy to help

now i need to upgrade things in my farm byeess

loves, siena.

[sh1-n0bu]

so,,,, despite being a monsterfucker for a while, i never really got the love for yautjas. until i was forced to watch killer of killers due to the rampage going on my feed and uhhhhh im pretty sure there are at least a handful of monsterfuckers out there who wants to top/dom a yautja like myself. also this isnt much of a fic. its just a sudden little thought i had after going thru the rule 34s tag of yautjas. no yautja in particular, take it as you will, imagine whoever you like. i dont know anything about yautjas or how this all works. im just horny and freeballing it. feel free to correct me

so… yautjas huh? what an alien species and mind you, this is my first impression of these guys. despite the majority of the killer or killers tags thirsting over the warlord — as we all should — i found myself liking the viking predator a lot. the goons are cute too. the three predators of the movie parts even have names too. jotun, oni and baron in the order they appear. of course, the guy in the pic above, the last one everyone is thirsting over, is warlord predator, also called ‘Grendel King’ by one of the characters

anyways, enough geeking over the yautjas of the movie, time to move on to my actual brainworms

yautjas are alien species and just as they are humanoid, some parts of them are indeed humanoid. and some parts, not so much. i have seen a decent amount of yautja smuts on the yautja tag — haven’t read them yet bc i prefer to be the one to fuck rather than get fucked — but one headcanon answer had me thinking multiple things

yautjas — male, female doesn’t matter — have two dicks and a vagina as well as an asshole. bigenital, if you will. every yautja can therefore sire their young, but the female yautjas tend to sire them and grow them in their bellies due to their stomach having more padded muscles, serving as a protective meat shield for the babies. the male yautjas carry them as well, but it’s more common to see the females carry them

i can’t find the author but one author here on tumblr had given their thought that yautjas never knew about blowjobs and lemme add to that — fingering as well. look at their mouths and hands, full of claws, fangs, mandibles and shit. truly a creature meant for hunting and killing rather than feeling fleshly pleasure. yautjas don’t really care about it either, they’re more of an animal mating ritual type of pleasure seekers. find a yautja who shakes your fancy, court them, knot them full and have a few strong, next generation of young’ins. simple and straight to the point like an animal mating ritual. no need for foreplay, fighting and wrestling to see who will knot who is a foreplay enough for their species

blowjobs? never, unless one is trying to bite off the dick of the other one. their mandibles stretch and open, sure. but they will never stretch big enough to take the other’s dick into their mouths. even if they do manage to painfully keep their mandibles open at all times, their fangs and canine sharp teeth will lead to bleeding and injuries soon enough. so even if their two dicks are weeping at the tip, untouched, and their pussy is glistening wet, the easiest way to just get it done with is to fuck their cocks into the other’s folds. it’ll be full of yowls, cracks, chirps and even growls because i personally like to think that the yautjas have a ribbed dick with a spliced tip. not that their tips could open up like their mandibles, but it definitely gives odd sensations. add the constant bumping and ribbing feeling of the scales and folds of their cock and the mating session between yautjas are usually always loud

so what happens when a ‘ooman is thrown into the mix? a great fighter, a blooded one who has been marked by one of their kin (like lex in avp), a recurring champion from the gladiatorial combat? yautjas are impressed, respectful and some are even vying after your attention on the few occasions you’re allowed awake from the cryo sleep and wandering around the strange, deserted, hot world of theirs. their kin usually has a bias against ’oomans due to their race being resourceful and cunning. they’re just as smart as the yautjas, if not, even more. able to use whatever is around them for survival and able to keep going even after multiple injuries (bc adrenaline). they’re an annoying species and yautjas tend to stay away. a little bit less with you, though. they want to be in the presence of the undefeated champion of the gladiatorial combat, size you up and see if you are truly worth the heavy title you bear upon your meager ‘ooman shoulders

maybe one thing would lead to another or one had gotten interested in your strengths in the bedroom as well and that leads to a yautja receiving their first head and fingering. the moment you drop them to the ground and settle between their legs, the yautja is tempted to wrestle. it is a foreplay between their kin after all. but no, he was dealing with a ‘ooman right now and as excited he was about getting to the fucking, he was also curious. how do ‘oomans show affection? how do they mate? how do they carry their young? so many questions, so little time

they would stay down and obedient, an occasional curious thrills and crackles leaving their throat as their mandibles click and clack softly. mutually curious as well, you finally manage to take off their intricate and annoying loincloth like thing, dropping it to the ground. and the hum that escapes you is equally returned by the yautja as they watch, the soft clicking of their ever moving mandibles filling the silent room. a slit like opening. two of them, even, with what you assume is an asshole underneath them. rubbing the back of your finger’s knuckle over the one on top, you hear the slight rumble from their chest like a purr, taking it as a good sign

the slit on top is bigger than the one underneath. they’re much more harder and covered with protective shells and scales as well, rather then the second one underneath that seems more softer and gummy like a vagina. messing with the scaled one, you watch with an ever growing interest as the slit opens more and more before a cockhead is pushed out, followed by a second cockhead which was a little bit smaller. so, the yautjas have both anatomies huh? like certain animals and how their two cocks are kept inside a protective slit like some reptiles and lizards’

it’s bumpy, it’s ribbed, it even has little round shaped ribs on its sides too. such curious beings, how alike they could be to your kin but also so different. of course, there was much needed poking, prodding and an eager snooping around. two large uniquely shaped cocks and a vaginal opening as well as an asshole. interesting

hearing the impatient hisses of the yautja, you merely grumble under your breath, hissing back at him with annoyance upon being cut short of your little experiment. what do yautjas even do for pleasure anyways? do they fuck like humans do? must be it, right? at least they had the anatomy for it

the moment you get down on them, head between their strong, tight thighs and restless shifting body, a sound like a warning growl was heard before it was swiftly replaced by some soft noises like the purring of a cat. yautjas don’t know what blowjobs and fingering meant after all, their bodies prevented from such types of pleasure. so when your soft, small ‘ooman mouth took in the head of the bigger cock, the warmth around it felt like the yautja was melting in the fiery chasms of the many volcanoes of the yautja prime. it was soft, it was hot and it felt good. way too good to the point the creature was growling, groaning and even letting out odd hitched noises that you guessed was the closest to a moan

and when you put their entire dick into your mouth — with much anticipated gagging, choking and the constant wild bucks into your open mouth — deep throating the bigger cock while gently stroking their smaller cock using the slimy substance the tip oozed, the yautja has basically experienced heaven. the urge to just let go of ‘honor’ and ‘instincts’ and knot inside your warm, tight throat was strong. a deep, gurgly sound escaping them as their mandibles shook all over, unknowing of what to do when your free hand slipped further down and pushing your finger into their softer slit

if you thought the yautja was loud before, they were even louder now. constant, short little noises leaving them, rattling their huge body and even causing you to shake alongside as well. strong legs kicking and clawed hands tearing off the poor floor into shreds. it was a good feeling, the very best, even more than having a clan leader recognize them or hunting down the most honorable prey. ‘oomans’ hands and mouth felt good, they were amazing at fleshly pleasures and had the yautja acted on their interest in you a little bit earlier, they would have. they honestly should have because whatever you were doing to his poor life time long neglected dicks and gushing pussy were making the yautja feel odd. so so very odd. a tight coiling in their stomach, and they for a moment, thought you infected them with something

and then, the tight coils of his stomach is gone within a moment. a loud roar leaving the beast as their body went rigid like a spring, dreadlocks slipping into the floor in a heap as their legs even gave a little tremble. the tip lodged inside your throat twitched and shook, a thick substance filling up your mouth before you could pull it off, causing you to hack and cough out the strange liquid. it didn’t take long until their smaller dick was following along, spilling a smaller load into your jaws and chest, second slit tightening around your fingers as a soft, more thinner liquid like the one from his bigger cock coat your palm. all because your little ‘ooman fingers delved inside their cunt a bit further and seemed to have found a soft spot, loud roars and short breathy growls being switched to little cat like yowls. so, they were just as sensitive as humans, huh?

safe to say, the rumor of ‘oomans being extremely amazing at fleshly pleasures spread across yautja prime swiftly and before you know it, more and more yautjas are interested in a little endurance test with their longest reigning champion

[carnalcrows]

A WHOLE NEW WORLD

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than a thief. But a stolen bracelet, a runaway heart, and a single reckless wish change everything. Now the world is spinning out of control—and the boy you can't forget might be the only real thing left to hold onto.

pairing: princess jasmine!choso kamo x alladin!male reader

content warnings: 18+, ftm choso (she/her pronous are used in the first half bc nobody knows of this), mahito is a warning of his own, top male reader, drowning, reader is an unreliable narrator (sorry bro).

word count: 8.0k

best viewed in dark mode

The market always smelled like too many things at once. Spices. Sand. Fruit that’s a little too ripe. Sweat. You’ve been running these streets since you were old enough to steal your first loaf of bread—and dumb enough to think it was free. These days, you know better. You know which stalls swap their goods by the hour, which alleys to cut through when the guards give chase, which rooftops creak beneath your weight and which ones won’t even notice you’re there.  

And today? Today, you’re hungry. Not just for food, though you could eat. It’s the other kind of hunger. The kind that scratches at the back of your throat and says don’t sit still too long. The kind that makes you pickpocket out of boredom, not desperation. Which is why you swipe the silver apple from the merchant’s tray with a grin and no remorse, tuck it into your sash, and disappear into the crowd like smoke.  

⋆｡°✩  

“Thief!” someone yells. You sigh. That was faster than usual. Megumi chitters from your shoulder, fur twitching, eyes sharp as ever. He flicks your ear like this is somehow your fault. You flick him back and keep moving. You don’t run. Not yet. You walk like someone with somewhere to be. Let the tension build. Let the guards get close enough to think they have you. And when the right corner comes—you bolt.  

⋆｡°✩  

You lose them after five turns, three leaps, and one stolen chicken skewer that you do, in fact, eat. You’re not sorry. Megumi squeaks his approval as you hop down from the awning and dust off your hands. The back street is quieter here. Fewer eyes. Fewer witnesses. And that’s when you see her.  

⋆｡°✩  

Dark cloak. Hood up. Shoulders tense, like she doesn’t want to be here. Like the world is too loud for her today. But her hands are delicate where they rest on the edge of a fruit cart—fingers trailing over a pomegranate like she’s trying to remember what sweetness is supposed to feel like. Her eyes flick up. Meet yours. There’s a flash of something you don’t expect. Not fear. Not scorn. Recognition.

And then the fruit seller turns, sees her fingers on the goods, and yells something sharp in a dialect neither of you speak. Her eyes go wide. You step in without thinking. “Hey!” you bark. “That’s my sister.” The man scowls. “She doesn’t talk,” you add quickly. “Head injury. Real tragic.” You loop an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, tug her away from the cart before either of you get hit with a broomstick.  

She doesn’t resist. Not until you’re two alleyways over and laughing breathlessly, and then—  

“Why did you help me?” she asks, voice low, cautious.  

You blink. Her hood’s fallen back a bit. Her face is pale and fine-featured. Sharp eyes. Loose braid. A little too well-groomed to be anyone’s sister from the lower quarter. You shrug. “Didn’t feel like watching you get yelled at.” She studies you. Really studies. Then—“You’re a thief,” she says, like she’s not sure whether to be impressed or irritated.  

“I’m a specialist,” you correct. “It’s different.”  

⋆｡°✩  

She walks like someone who’s used to silence. That’s the first thing you notice. Even in the backstreets—where the city’s heartbeat slows and the noise fades into sun-warmed stone and dust—she moves like she’s afraid to take up space. You pretend not to notice. You’re good at pretending.  

“So,” you say casually, adjusting Megumi’s grip on your shoulder. “You always ‘almost’ steal pomegranates, or was that just for flair?” She glances at you. Dry. “I wasn’t stealing.” You raise a brow. “You had your hand on it.” “I was thinking.” “Dangerous hobby.” She doesn’t answer that. Just keeps walking.  

She doesn’t belong here. Not just because of the cloak or the way her braid looks like it was combed by someone paid to do it. It’s the way she watches everything—eyes sharp beneath the hood, like she’s memorising the exits. Like you used to.  

“Are you lost?” you ask eventually. “No.” “Running from something?” She pauses. Then: “Not anymore.”  

⋆｡°✩  

You lead her to a little archway near the edge of the district—just low enough to duck into, just quiet enough to feel safe. You toss her a piece of the stolen chicken skewer. She catches it. Megumi squeaks at you like you’ve betrayed him. You toss him one too.  

She eats slowly. Not like she’s starving—but like food hasn’t made her feel human in a while. The light catches on something at her wrist—a bracelet, mostly hidden by her sleeve. Woven threads and silver beads. Not expensive, but loved. You can tell.  

“Nice bracelet,” you say casually. She covers it with her hand. “It was my mother’s,” she says, too quickly. You nod. Say nothing.  

The moment stretches. Softens. And then— Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Not guards. But not far off. You both freeze. You tug your hood lower. She pulls hers up. Your heart kicks once. Not from fear—from instinct.  

“Come on,” you whisper. You grab her hand. She follows without hesitation.  

⋆｡°✩  

You split off near a vendor stall. “Go that way,” you tell her, gesturing to the alley. “Sharp right, then left again. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.” She hesitates. Then she nods. “Thank you.” You grin, backing away. “It’s what friends are for.” She rolls her eyes. Then disappears.  

You wait until the coast is clear before slipping your hand into your pocket—and finding the bracelet you never meant to steal. Your stomach dips. You stare at the familiar weight. The tiny silver bead worn smooth in the centre. You didn’t take it to be cruel. You took it because… something about her made you want to keep a piece. Just for a little while. You sigh. “I’ll bring it back,” you tell Megumi, who just tilts his head. “I will.”  

You’ve snuck into a lot of places before. Noble houses. Merchant vaults. One bathhouse, by accident (long story). But the royal palace? That’s new. It’s not the guards that make you hesitate. It’s not even the sheer size of it—white stone and winding corridors, too many windows and not enough exits. No, what throws you off is how clean it is. No dust. No noise. No secrets whispered in the walls. You hate it.  

Megumi clings to your shoulder as you scale the garden wall, little claws digging into your shirt like he’s second-guessing your choices. You pat him once, then drop into the hedges. “I know,” you mutter. “But I promised.”  

The bracelet weighs heavier today. Not just in your pocket. In your chest.  

You don’t even know her name. But you remember the way her fingers curled over it. Like it wasn’t jewellery—like it was a memory. You’re not a good man. You know that. But you can be good for one thing. Even if it’s just this.  

⋆｡°✩  

You make it halfway across the inner courtyard before you see her. At first, you think you’re imagining it. The light hits just right—filtered through silk drapes and pale stone—and there she is, no hood, no cloak. Her braid is clean and tied back, her robes richer, darker, edged in silver thread. Two guards flank her at a respectful distance. Another man walks just behind her—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, well-dressed. Not a handmaiden. Not someone she reports to.  

They’re following her.  

Your heart stops.  

She’s not just from the palace.  

It’s her palace.

⋆｡°✩  

You’re frozen in place, suddenly very aware of the bracelet in your pocket and the stolen way you’re dressed and the dirt still clinging to your boots. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t even know her name.  

And she’s the princess.  

You take a half-step forward anyway. You don’t know what you think is going to happen. Maybe you’ll give the bracelet back. Maybe you’ll say something—anything—before you vanish again into the city and pretend you never made a promise to someone you never should’ve touched.  

And then—  

“Caught you.”  

⋆｡°✩  

A hand clamps down on your shoulder. Hard. You twist. Megumi screeches and leaps off you. But it’s too late. You’re face-to-face with a man you’ve never seen before. Light blue hair, loosely tied. A smile that doesn’t touch his pale eyes. He’s dressed like a royal advisor. Gold trim, rich layers. But the look he gives you is sharp enough to slice.  

He glances down at your hand. “Oh,” he purrs. “What’s this?” You don’t answer. “Breaking into the palace just to return a bracelet?” he asks, tone sweet and sour all at once. “How noble.”  

You try to pull away. His grip tightens. “Come,” he says, and you feel your stomach drop. “Let’s talk.”  

The desert doesn't begin the way you expect. It creeps in slowly—grain by grain, hush by hush. You don't even realize you've left the city until the horizon loses its edges and the color of the world flattens. Gold swallows grey. Stone gives way to sand. And suddenly you're small beneath a sky so wide, it feels like it's watching you.

Megumi is silent on your shoulder. Tense. You don't blame him.  

Mahito glides ahead, his pale blue hair ghosting behind him like the tail of some ancient thing. He hasn't said much since dragging you from the palace. Just that there's a cave. That it's full of treasure. That you'll find what he needs at the center.  

"You'll know it when you see it," he'd said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.  

Now, as the wind picks up and the dunes shift under your boots, you're starting to think this wasn't one of your better ideas.  

⋆｡°✩  

The cave entrance yawns before you like a mouth. Massive. Monstrous. Carved from obsidian and gold in the shape of a jaguar—or maybe a lion, but wrong. Too sleek. Too alive. Its eyes glow. Its teeth form the archway.  

Mahito sighs, almost bored. "Try not to touch anything but the lamp. The cave doesn't like greedy hands."  

You stare at him. "That's it? No map? No backup plan?"  

He grins. "Where's the fun in that?"  

The moment your foot crosses the threshold, the ground rumbles.  

⋆｡°✩  

Inside, the air turns thick—warm with the scent of old incense and metal. The walls pulse with veins of gold that glow like trapped fire. And the treasure...  

It's everywhere.  

Goblets crusted with emeralds. Weapons wrapped in silk. Jewels in colours you don't have names for. You step carefully, avoiding the statue that watches with jewelled eyes—  

—until Megumi squeaks.  

You turn just in time to see the ruby in his paw.  

Small. Beautiful. Terribly red.  

"Megumi," you whisper.  

The cave roars.  

⋆｡°✩  

Treasure collapses like water. The ground splits. You sprint, dodging falling stone, the lamp suddenly heavy in your grip as the entrance grinds shut behind you.  

You make it out—barely—hands scrabbling at the ledge as your body dangles over nothing.  

Mahito appears above you, framed by sunlight.  

"Help!" you shout.  

He smiles. "Pass me the lamp first."  

You hesitate.  

He stomps on your fingers.  

⋆｡°✩  

You fall.  

For one terrible second, all you see is sky. Then stone. Then—  

—Something catches you.  

Soft. Woven.  

A magic carpet sweeps beneath you, spiralling upward as Mahito's laughter fades. The lamp still burns in your hand.  

You stare at it.  

Wipe off the dust.  

And give it one, tentative rub.  

⋆｡°✩  

The explosion of light nearly blinds you. Smoke pours out in brilliant blues and purples, the air buzzing like it's trying to become sound. Then—  

A shape. A grin.  

And a voice like laughter and lightning:  

"DID SOMEBODY SAY WISHES?"  

Standing before you is a man, glowing faintly at the edges, with white hair that sparkles like frost and a robe that won't stay one colour.  

"Hi," he says, flashing teeth. "I'm your new favourite mistake."  

You open your mouth. Close it.  

Megumi faints.  

The man catches him mid-collapse and coos, "Aww, that's fair."  

You point. "What are you?"  

He beams. "Genie. Name's Gojo. Wishes. Magic. Sparkles. Screaming exes. The usual." He tosses Megumi gently onto a cushion that wasn’t there a second ago. Then turns back to you.

“You get three wishes,” he says, lifting three glowing fingers. “No refunds, no substitutions, no wishing for more wishes, no bringing back the dead, and no, I can’t make your eyeliner sharper—that’s between you and your mirror.”

You stare. He waits. Then tilts his head.

“…You okay there, street rat?”

⋆｡°✩  

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Gojo starts doing cartwheels in the air. Literal ones.

Glowing, twirling, smug-as-hell flips while conjuring a sparkling drink in one hand and a mini fireworks display in the other. Megumi clings to your shoulder like he’s ready to bite the next magical thing that moves.

“You okay there, sparkle-thief?” Gojo asks between spins. “Wanna make a wish? Something big? Bold? Perhaps shirtless with charisma?” You stare at him. Then down at the lamp in your hand. Then back up.

 “…So you can do anything, right?” Gojo winks. “Three wishes. Anything your heart desires, babycakes.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, waving the lamp a little. “I mean outside the wishes. Just you. Can you do anything? Or do you need the wish to work your mojo?” Gojo puffs up immediately.

“Excuse me? Excuse me? I am the most powerful being in the known realms. You think I need permission to do a little trick like—” he gestures vaguely “—I dunno, get you out of here?”

You shrug, mock-casual. “I mean, this cave’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it? Magical, collapsing death trap and all that. Maybe you can’t.” Gojo’s eye twitches.

You lean back on your palms, baiting him harder. “I mean, I get it. Maybe that’s why you need the wishes. You know. Limits.” Megumi squeaks like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

Gojo freezes midair. Then slowly floats down, landing in front of you with arms crossed and a pout forming fast.

“You wound me.” You give him a little shrug and a smug grin. “Prove me wrong.”

⋆｡°✩

There’s a snap. A burst of wind. And suddenly, the world flips. The cave vanishes. The stone. The heat. Gone.

You’re standing in open desert again, beneath a pale violet sky, stars blinking into view one by one like they’re surprised to see you alive.

Megumi topples into the sand beside you. You blink. Then slowly turn. Gojo is frozen mid-strut, mid-celebration, one finger raised in triumph. And then—

His whole face drops.

“Wait.” You grin.

He stares at you. “You—”

“I didn’t wish for anything,” you say, smug and victorious. His mouth opens.

Closes. Opens again. “You tricked me!”

“You tricked yourself,” you say, dusting off your hands. Gojo slaps his forehead. “Oh my god, you gaslit a genie.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘strategic flattery.’” He paces in a circle. “This is so embarrassing—this is like day one Genie Academy stuff—never let them goad you, Gojo—”

Megumi snickers. Gojo glares at him. “Don’t laugh. He’s your thief.” Megumi just grins wider.

You flop down in the sand with a sigh, running your fingers over the curve of the lamp. Still warm. Still yours.

Gojo eventually stops pacing and flops down next to you, kicking his sandals off mid-air.

“So,” he mutters, still sulking. “You've got three wishes left. Gonna wish for a palace? Infinite gold? A harem of emotionally damaged men?” You shake your head.

You pull the bracelet from your pocket. And you say, “I want to become a prince.”

Gojo raises a brow. “Oh? You royalty-curious now?” You smile a little.

“No,” you say. “But she is.”

⋆｡°✩

Gojo hovers upside down for a second. Then rolls onto his back in midair and kicks his legs like a teenager hearing drama for the first time.

“Ohhh,” he sings. “It’s a crush.” You shoot him a glare. “It’s not a—”

He floats closer, chin propped on one glowing hand. “She’s beautiful, mysterious, emotionally reserved, probably a little dangerous—”

You blink. “You’ve never even met her.”

“I’m magic, babe. I know things.” He spins once, flaring his sleeves with dramatic flair. “So! Wish number one: turn you into a prince. Let’s do this!”

You pause. Just for a second. “What’s the catch?” you ask warily. Gojo gasps. “How dare. I am deeply offended.”

“You said you’ve got screaming exes.”

“Yeah, but they’re mostly jealous I look this good in silk.”

“Gojo.”

“Fine, fine. No catch. But you have to be specific.” He floats down to eye level, suddenly serious—well, serious for him. “You wanna be a prince, I can do that. But a real prince? With history, backstory, legitimacy, social clout, a tragic origin story?” He wiggles his fingers. “You gotta be clear.”

You hesitate. Then say quietly, “I just need to be… enough. Enough for her to look at me like I belong in her world.”

Gojo softens. It’s barely there, but real.

“Got it,” he says. Then he claps his hands once.

And the world explodes.

You don’t know where you are.

There’s colour everywhere—glitter and silk, ribbons of light, sand turning to glass beneath your feet. Megumi yelps as he’s scooped into a flurry of golden fabric, then promptly drops out the other side wearing a tiny embroidered vest and hat.

You are also suddenly in new clothes. Many clothes.Too many. A turban appears, spins three times, and explodes.

A jacket snaps onto your shoulders, then vanishes, then reappears in a different colour. Gojo mutters to himself, throws a handful of stars into the air, and steps back.

The whirlwind fades. You stumble forward and catch a glimpse of yourself in the water.

You look like someone else.Not a stranger. Not fake.

Just… polished. Taller. Cleaner. Like a better version of who you’ve always tried to be. Gojo whistles.

“Damn. You’re gonna break hearts and laws with that face.” You stare.

Touch your chest. Then look up.

“…This is me?”

He grins. “For now.”

⋆｡°✩

It starts with music. Low and distant at first, like a heartbeat under the ground. Then louder. Brighter. Faster.

By the time it reaches the palace gates, the sound has become a parade. Drums pounding. Horns blaring. The ground practically shakes beneath it. People gather at the edges of the street, wide-eyed, murmuring, pushing to see what the noise is about.

The guards don’t even know what to do. One of them drops his spear. And at the centre of the chaos— You.

Perched atop an extravagant, over-decorated, too-sparkling chariot that Gojo conjured five minutes ago because, quote, “You need drama.” There are banners in colours you don’t recognise, dancers flanking your path, golden confetti swirling through the air like it’s trying to make up for your anxiety.

Megumi rides next to you on the magic carpet, arms folded and expression deeply unimpressed, wearing a crown Gojo forced on him.

You want to throw up. You smile instead.

⋆｡°✩

Choso watches from the upper balcony. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Geto stands beside him, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the spectacle below. “Another prince,” he mutters. Choso hums. This one’s different.

The way he smiles at the crowd—not too big, not too forced. The way he bows at the gates. The way he scans the palace—once, quickly, like he’s trying not to look for something he wants to see.

It tugs at something in his chest. Something familiar. He frowns.

⋆｡°✩

“Introducing,” Gojo declares from the front of the parade, spinning mid-air and throwing glitter like it's a legal requirement, “the dazzling, the dashing, the devastatingly single Prince of the Seven Sands and Fourteen Rivers and One Very Cool Monkey—”

You elbow him. Hard. Gojo coughs. “—I mean. Prince—”

The guards step aside. The palace gates open. And you step through.

⋆｡°✩

You’re led into the throne room with trumpets blaring, velvet swishing around your ankles, and Gojo whispering terrible advice in your ear.

“Don’t trip,” he mutters. “Don’t bow too low. Compliment her—them, compliment them. Say something about the tapestry. Or the hair. Or, ooh, eyes! But don’t say eyes first, that’s creepy. You know what, just—say nothing. Smile. Look rich.”

“Gojo.”

“Also, maybe mention your monkey. Everyone loves a monkey.”

“GOJO.”

He vanishes in a puff of smoke. You inhale slowly. And step forward.

⋆｡°✩

Choso is already seated. Elegant, poised, eyes unreadable behind thick lashes.

You bow too low.

Geto raises a brow. Mahito smirks from the side like he’s already smelling a lie. And the king—Gakuganji, crowned and ancient and only semi-awake—beams.

“Ah! Our guest!” he says, gesturing with a heavy hand. “Look at this fine young man! What a jawline!” You straighten. Smile. Try not to sweat. Choso blinks at you. You clear your throat.

“It’s an honour,” you say, your voice suddenly a bit too deep, a bit too dramatic. “To be in the presence of such radiant… uh, royalty.” Choso tilts her head.

You panic. “And of course,” you add, “to meet the legendary tiger. I hear it has an excellent sense of character.”

Yuuji, lounging beside the throne, bares his teeth. Loudly. Choso hums. “He usually growls at liars.”

“Ah,” you say, blinking. “How… loyal.”

⋆｡°✩

Mahito glides forward, all polite venom. “What kingdom did you say you were from again, Your Highness?”

You freeze. Think fast.

Gojo appears behind Mahito, invisible to everyone but you, making frantic throat-cutting motions. “Uh—the Eastern Expanse. South of the Glass Sea. Just beyond the Twin Cliffs of—”

“—Cringe?” Gojo mouths.

“—Valour,” you say tightly. Geto narrows his eyes. Mahito hums, clearly amused.

Choso sips from a cup and doesn’t even try to look interested.

⋆｡°✩

Gojo reappears beside Geto, this time visible, in a deep navy robe and too much jewellery, swirling wine and batting his lashes. “You must be exhausted,” he says softly. “All this watching. You should sit down. Or let someone rub your shoulders. Or maybe your ego?”

Geto blinks at him. Then smirks.

“Is this your first time attempting seduction?” he asks. Gojo grins, teeth sharp. “Would you like it to be my last?”

⋆｡°✩

You, meanwhile, are dying.

You’ve complimented the floor tiles. You’ve fumbled three metaphors. You’ve told a story about a camel that might not have landed. And Choso hasn’t smiled once.

Worse, she hasn’t looked at you the way she did in the alley. Not yet. But something in her gaze lingers now—longer than before. Like she’s trying to place a shadow she saw once. A voice she heard in a dream.

You shift, fingers brushing the inside of your sleeve where the bracelet still sits. And you think: Not yet.

⋆｡°✩

The palace quiets after dark.

Servants vanish behind doors. Lights dim. Voices hush. The music from the courtyard fades into nothing but wind moving through marble archways and the distant hiss of sand brushing against stone. You’re standing on the edge of the upper balcony, staring out at the stars, feeling like they’re too far away.

Behind you, footsteps. You turn. Choso steps into view, arms crossed over her chest, long coat pulled tight despite the heat. Her braid is loose. Her expression is unreadable.

“You’re out late,” she says. You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.” Choso doesn’t move closer, but doesn’t walk away either. You hesitate. Then smile, gentle. “Could say the same for you.”

“I’m always up late,” she replies. “Hard to rest when everything is so… quiet.” You nod. “Silence is loud, sometimes.”

A beat.

She glances sideways at you. “You’re different.” You tense. “Different how?”

“From the others,” she says. “The other suitors. You don’t walk like you’re owed something. You don’t speak like you believe your own story.” You glance down at the marble beneath your feet.

“I don’t.”

⋆｡°✩

Just then, Gojo appears beside you. Not fully visible—more of a glimmer in the air, like moonlight caught in motion.

He leans close. “Hey,” he whispers. “This is your moment.” You blink. “She’s standing there, all mysterious and gorgeous and complicated, and you’re just standing here like a guy with no game. You wanna impress her?”

You mutter under your breath, “I thought you weren’t supposed to interfere.” He winks. “I’m not interfering. I’m supporting. Now ask if she wants to see something cool.”

⋆｡°✩

You inhale. Then turn to Choso. “I know this sounds strange,” you say, “but… would you like to go for a ride?” Choso raises a brow.

You nod toward the balcony edge. “I have something to show you.” Her expression doesn’t change.

But after a beat, she says: “Fine. But if this is another metaphor, I’m leaving.” You grin. “It’s not.” You whistle.

And the carpet soars up from the shadows.

She steps back, startled. Then stares. The rug hums with magic, hovering just above the floor, tassels fluttering like they’re twitching with excitement. Choso blinks. “Is that—?”

“Sentient? Yeah. A little sassy too.” You step onto it first, then offer your hand. She hesitates. Then places her palm in yours.

Her fingers are cold. But her grip is strong. You help her up. She sits in front of you, eyes flicking to the edge of the balcony, then to the sky.

“…Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Nope,” you say, smiling. “But that’s the fun part.” And with a soft shudder—

The carpet lifts.

⋆｡°✩

The palace falls away beneath you. The night air rushes past your skin. Choso’s breath catches in her throat as the city unfurls beneath you—lanterns flickering in narrow alleys, domes gleaming under starlight, the world spread wide and glowing and endless.

She turns to look at you. You don’t say anything. You just hold on. And take her higher.

⋆｡°✩

You land softly, almost weightlessly, on the terrace just outside Choso’s chambers.

She’s still quiet, still wind-tousled, still flushed from the cold kiss of sky on her skin. Her braid is coming undone, and one hand rests on her chest like she’s trying to hold something in—something that might spill over if she speaks too soon.

You linger there a moment longer, letting the carpet drift backwards into the shadows. You watch her, eyes drawn to the way she turns from the railing to you. A slow pivot. Unreadable expression. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For that.”

You smile. “Anytime.” You step back, ready to take your leave.

And before you think better of it, you add— “Good night, princess.” It’s meant to be charming. Light.

But her smile falters.

Not in a way that says hurt, not exactly. More like she’s standing on the edge of a truth he’s been holding for too long. You notice too late. “I’m not—” she starts, then stops.

She takes a breath. Steadies herself. And says it clearly, steadily: “I’m not a princess. I’m not even... her.” You blink.

She lifts her chin a little, eyes burning with something fierce and fragile all at once. “I’m a man,” she says. “I always have been. Even if—" She swallows. "Even if not everyone believes it.”

There’s a silence after that. Not empty. Heavy. Alive.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

You just look at him—the way the moonlight brushes the sharp line of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders, the tremble he tries to hide in his hands—and realise that somehow, he looks more royal now than he ever did in silk and jewels.

You find your voice. “I believe you.”

His next breath is shaky. “You thought I was someone else.”

“I didn’t,” you say. Quietly. Honest. He glances up. “I thought you were someone extraordinary,” you say. “I still do.” Something in his face cracks. Softens.

You step forward. Close enough to touch. But you don’t—not yet. “I don’t care about the title,” you murmur. “I don’t care about the rules. I care that you smiled at me once in an alley, and I haven’t been able to forget it since.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he was born.

And then— He reaches for you.

⋆｡°✩

His hands find the front of your robe. Yours find the line of his waist. It’s not frantic. It’s not even heated—at first.

It’s something slower. Deeper. Something that hums between your ribs and makes your skin ache just to be closer. When he kisses you, it’s hesitant. Careful. Testing the shape of your mouth like he's still afraid he’s not allowed.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting to. Like you knew, somehow.

Like this has always been the truth.

⋆｡°✩

The bed is quiet. Soft. Too large, too royal, too untouched by real life—but you forget that quickly. Because he’s beneath you.

Because his hands are in your hair, and your fingers are trembling as you trace them down the length of his spine, over the curve of his ribs, careful with every inch like he’s something sacred.

He breathes out your name when you kiss the spot just below his ear. His legs part instinctively when your body moves between them. Your name again—this time shakier, needier, like he’s falling open for you without even meaning to.

You ask before anything changes. He nods. And you move together like something pulled by gravity.

The room glows gold and shadow. His skin is warm. Softer than you thought. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

You kiss down his chest, over his stomach, tasting every part of him that he gives you. He arches when you touch him—soft sounds spilling from her lips like prayers, like confessions, like things never said aloud until now.

He wraps his legs around your waist. Whispers your name again like it means something new. And when you press into him— Slow, careful, trembling—

He doesn’t flinch. He lets you in.

⋆｡°✩

It’s slow. Not quiet.

He gasps when your hips move. Moans when your lips return to his. You try not to fall apart at the sound—try to last just a little longer, to feel all of him, to remember this as the first time you were seen and wanted and welcomed all at once.

He holds you tightly. Kisses you deeper. Moves with you, against you, beneath you. You don’t rush. You can’t. It builds like a wave.

Like heat and ache and everything breaking open. And when it crests—

You fall together.

⋆｡°✩

Afterwards, you lie tangled in silk sheets and shallow breaths, the world narrowed to the space between your bodies. Your hand in his. Your thumb brushes the line of his knuckles. You press a kiss to his temple. He exhales.

And smiles for real this time.

You wake to the sound of birds. Soft, scattered, high in the distant trees.

The kind of sound you never hear in the lower quarters of the city, where the only music is wheels against stone and the creak of heavy doors. You let it wash over you. Let yourself believe—for one last, fragile minute—that the world outside is as kind as this bed, this morning, this boy sleeping beside you.

Choso lies curled on his side, braid undone, dark hair fanned across the pillow like spilt ink. One hand rests loosely against your chest, fingers twitching now and then with dreams he hasn’t woken from yet.

The light filters in slow and gold, turning the silk sheets into something almost holy. It slips over the slope of his shoulders, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You could stay like this. You could forget the city, the lies, the borrowed name stitched into the back of your coat. You could forget the way Mahito watched you with a smile that never touched his eyes.

You could. But you don't.

You can't.

⋆｡°✩

You shift carefully, brushing your thumb over the back of Choso's hand. He stirs. Blinks sleepily up at you. His lashes catch the light. "...Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," you say, softer. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. He just watches you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, like he’s still waiting for you to change your mind now that the night is over.

You don't. You kiss his forehead. He exhales, a sound more felt than heard, and tucks himself closer. You let your fingers trail lightly down his back, tracing the spaces between his ribs, the small scars and marks of a life you haven’t heard about yet—but want to. You want to learn them all.

You think: I could stay. But footsteps echo down the corridor outside. A voice calls faintly—court summons, morning meetings, new dignitaries arriving. Reality creeps in like the tide.

You meet Choso’s gaze. Neither of you says it. Neither of you has to.

This world isn’t made for boys like you. Not yet.

You don’t realise you’re being followed until it’s too late.

The palace corridors twist like veins, familiar but shifting somehow in the heavy evening air. You’re almost back to the guest wing, to the safe warmth of Choso’s voice, when a shadow cuts across your path.

Mahito. Blocking the hall. Smiling like he’s been waiting for this. You freeze. Your fingers twitch toward the lamp hidden in your sash. Too slow.

⋆｡°✩

"You're clever," Mahito says, voice silk-slick. "I'll give you that." He steps closer. You don't move.

"But not clever enough." His pale eyes gleam. His hand lifts lazily—and before you can even reach for Megumi or the lamp—   a sharp shove, magic crackling at your back—

You stumble. Arms grabbed. Ropes you can't see binding around your wrists, your ankles.

"Street rat," Mahito murmurs, almost tender. Then—

The balcony edge rushes up. He doesn't even watch you fall.

The air tears past you in a scream you can’t hear. The river below catches you in a brutal, crushing grip—icy and endless and roaring in your ears. You sink fast. Weighed down by silk, rope, and fear. You thrash. Fight. Try to scream for Gojo—but the water fills your mouth, your nose, your eyes, dragging you under.

You reach for the lamp with your bound hands. Mouth a desperate plea into the black. Please.

The lamp flashes against your chest. Heat surges in your lungs. And the world shatters.

⋆｡°✩

You’re gasping on the riverbank. Coughing so hard it tears at your throat. Gojo kneels beside you, drenched, furious, still sparking faintly with leftover magic.

"You—" he chokes, raking a hand through his wet hair. "You used your second wish." You can’t even answer. You just grip the sand, coughing, as Megumi clambers over your chest, clicking his teeth in frantic relief. "You’ve got one left," Gojo mutters.

Quiet now. Almost broken.

⋆｡°✩

But you don’t have time to think. Not yet. Because somewhere in the palace, Mahito still stands.

Still smiling. Still plotting. You push yourself to your feet.

And you run.

The guards are scattered. The throne room churns with confusion. Gakuganji—the Sultan—is slumped against his throne, eyes glazed, words slurring.  At Mahito’s side, a tall staff gleams darkly, twisted into the shape of a cobra.

You don't need Gojo to tell you. The staff is the key. You charge.

⋆｡°✩

Mahito turns just as you reach him. He grins. "You just don’t know when to die, do you?" You don’t answer.

You swing— Hard. The staff cracks at the base, splintering under the force of your stolen sword.

The magic whines. Then—  shatters. Gakuganji blinks. Shakes his head.And roars for the guards. Mahito snarls—lunges for you—but four soldiers tackle him before he can reach. They drag him toward the dungeons. He twists once to glare at you over his shoulder. "I’ll be back," he spits. "You’ll have to wait," you say, voice steady now.

And the doors slam behind him.

⋆｡°✩

Gakuganji turns to you. "You saved my mind," he says gruffly. "And my kingdom." You swallow. The lamp is heavy in your sleeve.He smiles.

A slow, approving smile. "And if my child wishes it," Gakuganji says, voice rising, "you shall have her hand."The room erupts in cheers. Choso stands stiff near the throne, eyes wide—face unreadable. And in that moment—

You realise the world would give you everything you want. If you kept lying.

Gojo appears by your side, quieter now. He doesn't say anything. Just looks at you. Waiting. Hoping. You tighten your fingers around the lamp. And you hesitate.

⋆｡°✩

The celebration fades around you.

 You barely hear it—the clapping, the cheers, the way Gakuganji beams, and the royal guards stamp their spears in approval. All you see is Choso.

Standing a few steps away. Not smiling. Not rushing forward. Just… waiting. Hesitant. Hopeful. Fragile in a way that cuts deeper than anything Mahito could have thrown at you.

⋆｡°✩

Gojo stands at your side. Still shimmering faintly from the river. Still waiting. Not pushing.  Not pleading. Just standing there like someone holding a string he already knows you’re about to let go of.

You reach for the lamp. Feel the weight of the final wish burning against your skin. Your throat tightens. You promised. When you first met him—lost and laughing in a puff of glitter—you promised you’d set him free. That was before you fell in love with the wrong name.

The wrong life. Before Choso looked at you like you were worth it. Before you knew what it felt like to belong.

⋆｡°✩

You close your fingers around the lamp. Breathe.

And you can feel Gojo’s gaze—steady and unbearably gentle. Waiting. Trusting. You falter. You think– Just a little longer. Just until the wedding. Just until you’re sure.

You need him. You can’t do this without him.

You can't.

⋆｡°✩

You lower the lamp. Don’t say the wish. Don’t say anything. The betrayal is small.  Quiet. You don’t even see Gojo flinch.But you feel it.

In the way he goes, very still beside you.  

In the way the magic in the air dims—like a candle guttering before it goes out. You glance at him. He smiles. Almost. A threadbare thing.

"Guess some promises are easier to break," he says softly. No anger. No accusation. Just… sadness.

⋆｡°✩

Before you can speak, before you can explain or apologise or take it back— Gojo retreats. The magic swirls around him, blue and gold and soft with resignation.

The lamp hums once in your hand. And he’s gone. Sealed away. Silent.

You stand alone in the throne room. Choso approaches carefully. And the crowd cheers again. But it sounds so far away. Like the echo of a door closing behind you.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t sleep that night. Not really. The palace celebrates around you—banquets and music and the rustle of gold—but it sounds muffled, like you’re hearing it through water.  

You sit alone by the windows, staring out over the empty streets, watching the stars blur.

The lamp sits heavy in your hands. You haven’t touched it since Gojo vanished inside. You don’t know if he’s listening. Or if he even wants to anymore.

The knock at your door comes soft. You don’t move at first.

You think maybe it’s Choso—come to ask if you’re alright, to pull you out of your own head the way he did once with a single smile. But when the door creaks open—

You see blue hair. You see Mahito’s grin. And you know you’re too late.

⋆｡°✩

It’s not a fight– It’s a theft. A blur of motion—magic flaring cold and sharp in the small room—the lamp ripped from your hands before you can even shout. You stagger. Reach. Miss.

Mahito steps back into the shadows, lamp cradled against his chest like a prize he was always meant to have. "Thanks for keeping it warm," he says sweetly.

Then he’s gone. Vanished into the dark.

⋆｡°✩

The alarm rises seconds later. Too late.

Guards scrambling through the halls. Choso shouting your name across the marble. Geto throwing orders like knives.   But none of it matters. Mahito has the lamp– And you know what comes next. You know because you know him—better than you want to.

He’ll wish for power. For the throne. For the kind of magic no mortal should ever touch. And no one—not even you—can stop him now.

⋆｡°✩

Unless. You run. You don’t think– you just move. Out of your chambers. Down the steps. Through the garden where the night air burns cold against your skin. You find Choso at the fountain, sword half-drawn, looking for you.

His eyes widen when he sees your face. "What happened?"You gasp for breath.

"He has the lamp." For a second—just one—fear flashes across Choso’s face.

But then he straightens. Grips his sword. "Then we take it back."

You reach the throne room just in time to see it happen.

Mahito stands at the centre of it all—grinning, wild, radiant with stolen magic.  The lamp in one hand. Gakuganji slumped to one side. The guard kneeling with empty eyes.

He holds the lamp high. “I wish,” Mahito says, voice sharp with triumph, “to be Sultan!” The air twists. Magic slams into the walls, cracking stone and shattering chandeliers.  The throne reshapes itself beneath him, black and gold and monstrous.

The room falls silent. Mahito—no longer an advisor, no longer anything human—turns his new crown in his hands. And laughs.

⋆｡°✩

You flinch backwards. Choso catches your arm. "Stay with me," he says, voice low. You nod. You draw your sword—cheap steel against magic.  It feels useless.

But you raise it anyway. Because the alternative is letting Mahito win. And you’re not that boy anymore. You’re not a street rat sneaking bread from market stalls.

You’re someone worth fighting for.

⋆｡°✩

Mahito steps down from the throne with slow, theatrical strides. Around him, the corrupted guards start moving toward you. Choso draws his sword too. Geto appears from the side doors, slipping through the chaos, blade flashing as he cuts down two of Mahito’s enthralled soldiers.

Megumi—small and furious—claws his way up a guard’s leg and bites. You lunge forward. Steel against steel. Magic crackling at the edges of your vision.

⋆｡°✩

But you’re not winning. Not really.

Mahito’s too strong now. Too fast. Too twisted with power, he was never meant to touch. Every time you cut down a guard, two more replace them. You duck a strike, parry another, heart pounding, throat burning. You can feel the ground tilting—everything sliding toward ruin.

⋆｡°✩

And Mahito watches. Smiling. Like a cat watching mice tire themselves out before the kill. "You can’t win," he says lazily. "You’re nothing. You were always nothing." Your hand tightens on the sword hilt.

You think of Choso’s hand in yours.  Of Gojo’s crooked smile.  Of Megumi clinging to your jacket like you were something worth protecting. You raise your head. And you smile back.

⋆｡°✩

"You’re right," you say. You lower your sword. Mahito frowns– confused.

"You’re right," you say again, louder. "I’m nothing. Just a street rat. A liar. A thief." You take a slow step forward.

"You’re the powerful one now. You’re stronger than anyone. Smarter. Better." You meet his eyes.

"And it’s not enough, is it?" Mahito’s smile falters. The doubt creeps in. The greed. The fear that even with the world under his heel, someone somewhere might still look down on him. You step closer. Let him see the bait.

"If you’re really that great," you murmur, voice dropping to a whisper, "why settle for Sultan?" Mahito freezes. You smile, small and devastating.

"Why not wish to be the most powerful being in the world?"

⋆｡°✩

The silence snaps. Mahito whirls toward the lamp. His knuckles whiten around it. "I wish," he snarls, "to be a Genie!"

The magic screams. The world bends. The ground heaves beneath your feet as the lamp flares—blinding white and burning blue—and Mahito’s body twists, warps, shrinks.

He screams. Not in victory. In terror.

Because he understands, too late, what you already knew: Genies are powerful.

But they are never free.

Chains—gold and searing, lash around his wrists. The lamp yawns open like a mouth. And Mahito is dragged inside. Gone. Sealed.

Forever.

The throne room stills. You lower your sword. Choso catches you when your knees buckle, steady hands warm against your ribs. You close your eyes. And breathe.

⋆｡°✩

The throne room is a mess of broken marble and stunned silence. But none of it matters. Not the shattered columns, or the scorch marks on the floor, or the lingering weight of magic still trembling through the air. You’re still standing.

Choso’s hand is still wrapped around yours. And in your other hand— The lamp. Heavy.

Alive. Waiting.

⋆｡°✩

You lift it carefully. Thumb tracing the worn edge of the spout. You hear Gojo’s voice in your head—bright, careless, teasing:

"What would you wish for, street rat?" And you smile.

⋆｡°✩

You don't hesitate this time. You hold the lamp close. "I wish," you say, voice steady, "for Gojo to be free."

The magic bursts out like a second sunrise. Blinding. Joyous. Real.The lamp trembles in your grip—then stills.

And Gojo— Gojo appears in a cascade of light, blinking like he’s seeing the sky for the first time. He touches his own chest, stunned. No chains. No pull back into the lamp. Just him.

Just free.

He laughs—wild and hoarse and a little broken—and then turns and tackles you into a hug so hard you stagger back two steps. "You crazy, beautiful, reckless idiot," he breathes into your hair. You laugh too—wet and breathless and so full it almost hurts.

"You’re free," you whisper. "Yeah," he says, pulling back to beam at you. "Yeah, I am."

⋆｡°✩

Geto appears at his side, folding his arms and giving Gojo a once-over like he’s assessing a particularly troublesome stray cat. "So," Geto says dryly, "now that you’re not a mystical prisoner of cosmic servitude anymore…" Gojo grins, flashing teeth."You’re stuck with me," he says, leaning casually against Geto’s shoulder like he’s always belonged there.

Geto rolls his eyes. But his hand finds Gojo’s without hesitating. "S'pose I could do worse," he mutters. Gojo’s grin only widens. "Aw," he coos. "You like me."

"Don’t push your luck."

⋆｡°✩

The court regathers slowly. The king—Gakuganji—steps forward, the crown still slightly askew on his head, but his eyes clearer now than they have been in weeks. He looks at Choso.

Really looks at him. Like seeing him for the first time. And Choso—

Choso straightens. Takes a step closer. And says, quietly but firmly:

"I’m not your daughter." The words hang there. Heavy. Sacred. "I never was." A beat. A breath. And then— Gakuganji chuckles. Low. Rough. Like stone cracking. "Good," he says. "I never liked raising girls. Too much screaming." A pause. Then, softer:

"I’m proud of you."

Choso blinks. Then bows his head, just slightly, like he’s carrying something too big to hold all at once.

⋆｡°✩

"And," Gakuganji continues, voice carrying, "I suppose I’ll need a new law." You stiffen.

The king’s gaze sweeps the hall. "From this day on," he says, "royals may marry whomever they choose. No bloodlines. No borders."

His eyes settle on you. "Just hearts."

The hall breaks into cheers. You barely hear them. You’re too busy watching Choso. The way his mouth curves, small and shy. The way his fingers reach for yours again.

The way he shines.

⋆｡°✩

Later, in the garden where the stars first found you—

You stand with Choso under the heavy branches of a fig tree, the lamp finally quiet at your feet, and the moon turning the world silver. You take his hand. You feel it tremble. You let yours tremble too.

"You don’t have to say yes," you whisper. "You don’t owe me anything." Choso looks at you for a long moment. Then steps closer. Presses his forehead to yours.

"I’ve been waiting my whole life," he breathes, "for someone who sees me." You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And the world—this strange, broken, mended world—feels like it might finally be yours. Together.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere above, Gojo and Geto bicker about constellations. Megumi steals a peach tart from the palace kitchens and almost gets caught.

And you— You kiss Choso under the stars. Not because a story told you to. Not because a wish demanded it.

But because, for the first time—

You can.

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